


Bon Dia!

by Lywinis



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Pre-TSS, or lust, pre-TGC, who knows at this point but it's mine so there you go, yes this is Exactly What You Think It Is, young spies in love, your patience has been rewarded
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-01-09 17:15:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 55,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12280920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: "Do you know what I felt, the moment that Valentine shot me? I felt nothing. I was beholden to no one and nothing, and the end of my life...I felt lonely. An incredible loneliness that stretched out over the years until I was swallowed by it."Alternatively: Harry Hart is a damned liar.





	1. Sentiment

**[Savile Row – 1983]**

Harry Hart strode through the shop to the meeting room on the upper level, aware that his pocket watch was slow. He would have to speak to Merlin about it, as the blighter swore up and down that the Swiss timing was never off. The staff took in his late appearance with barely restrained smiles; this had become a common occurrence with their young Galahad.

He tidied his hair in the polished brass of the door sign before he stepped in, aware of the needles on his skin from Arthur’s sharp gaze. The meeting room was lit dimly, meant to obscure their faces from outside observation; during the Soviet occupation of Germany, eyes were everywhere, real or imagined. The room was still elegantly appointed, despite not being able to see anything beyond the pale circles from the ancient gas lighting that still ran in the building.

“Late again, I see,” his senior said, the acid in his voice something that Arthur didn’t bother to hide. Harry felt the tips of his ears flush, but he restrained his excuses with a murmured apology and took his seat across from Lancelot. His mentor, Thomas Brampton, wore a thin-lipped look of censure on his face as Harry pressed the tiny earpiece into his ear and dialed into the meeting.

While the Kingsman agency didn’t have much in the way of a centralized meeting place, they did have hidden telephone and radio lines, and only Knights with deep cover missions were not present. Each Knight was sent an encrypted letter, stating the time and place for the next meeting, and most never missed them. Harry noted the red lights from all Knights lit up on the panel in front of Arthur, save for himself, Gawain and Lamorak; both of the others were off gallivanting across the Wall, and that meant radio silence for now.

Arthur cleared his throat, his ire palpable as he began the meeting. Harry knew that there would be a quiet disdain from the older man for a while, but he was used to it by now.

Harry was the young upstart. He’d been a Knight barely three years at present, with more than fifteen successful missions under his belt. He was a quickly rising star, and he knew it – the newest Knight, Gawain, was a somber and plodding fellow, able to slide into the position by sheer luck. Harry had outpaced him easily and without conscious thought, preferring to concentrate on his own career rather than the failings of his peers.

Word around Central was that Harry Hart could get away with murder even when he wasn’t neutralizing targets.

Perhaps that was the issue. Harry resolved to put it from his mind. There was no point in worrying about it now. He crossed his legs at the knee and put his hands in his lap, leaning back in his chair to listen.

“Now that we are all present,” he said as Harry’s light glowed in unison with the others. “We are to begin another surveillance mission. There are rumors that the KGB are expanding their influence in Spain to tempt easier sales of weapons, both mechanical and biological. These weapons are being provided by an unknown source – our moles in the Pentagon and the White House state that this deal is not theirs or Cuba’s, but word in the Americas is that Fidel Castro has made it known to the Russians that any weapons deals would benefit his ongoing conflict with the United States.”

Harry breathed in; this was nothing new, but a new player in the game long established meant uncertainty, and that meant that Arthur was nervous. The old man didn’t like change, and change was in the wind now. Harry listened as Arthur began to lay down the particulars.

“We will need a surveillance tap in Florida to monitor our Cuban neighbors. It appears our last bugs were found, but they were unable to determine that it was our tech. Our tech department will need an escort to place new ones. Percival and Bors will provide it, under the guise of two hotel magnates looking to expand into the United States.”

“Sir,” they chorused. Harry had a feeling he was going to be left out of this one. It was reasonable, though. The older Knights were well-versed in this type of work, and it always made Harry wroth with unused energy while he tried to be patient enough for a target to move. He affected a bored expression while Arthur assigned other details, waiting to hear what his part in this mission would be.

Thomas caught his eye from across the table, his frown growing more thunderous as he watched Harry stifle a yawn. Perhaps that had come off a bit too bored. Harry dialed it back. While Thomas had his own issues with Arthur, he didn’t tolerate outright disrespect, and Harry was bordering on the outright rude. He toed the line, only to back down just before crossing it.

“Merlin, come in now,” Arthur called.

Their tech wizard entered, wheeled along by a tidy young man with a high widow’s peak. Harry’s bored expression dropped, the carefully cultivated lackadaisical attitude gone in an instant, though his laconic posture remained. His attention wasn’t on the old man in the wheelchair, but rather his assistant carrying the bundle of files in.

A failure of the recent crop of recruits, a potential Gawain had been scooped up by Merlin instead. He’d refused to shoot his dogs, after taking in the remainder of the animals in the cages. A funny fellow indeed, he’d objected to pointing a weapon at anything you didn’t intend to kill, though the rumor was he had already been able to tell the difference between a pistol loaded with blanks and one without.

Lanky and just growing into broad shoulders, a trim waist and an almost belligerently straight-backed posture, he bore the beginnings of a masculine, square jaw. Expressive hazel eyes were focused on the files in his hands, even as his dark brows beetled while he sorted them. Elegant hands and clever fingers flickered through paper as he looked for the information his mentor required.

Given another year or so to grow into his facial features and the rest of his muscle, he would be a classically handsome man indeed. Long legs carried him around the conference table, handing a file to Arthur, who took it without even a glance in the man’s direction. How he couldn’t watch was beyond Harry; it was all he could think to do in the moment, albeit following the young man with his eyes and not overtly.

Harry felt like a predator coiled to pounce, and apparently Thomas noticed, too. He felt the nudge to his shin beneath the table, just shy of a kick, and he returned his attention to Arthur.

“Lancelot, I am assigning you and Galahad to observe in Barcelona,” Arthur was saying. “There are rumors that the new sellers like the climate, and that they winter in the hotels there. It will be up to you to determine which ones, their route, and if they have their weapons with them in the city. If not, we will need the location for the cache. You have permission to obtain this information by any means necessary.”

“Sir,” Lancelot said. Thomas was reading through the file, his spectacles perched on his nose as he absorbed all of the information. Harry knew that Thomas was hardly eidetic in his memory, but his eyes flickering over the page belied a reading speed that came naturally to his mentor.

Harry felt a presence beside him and turned his head. The young man held out a file, and Harry took it. The shadows darkening the room as the sun set made it hard to tell what he was thinking, and he avoided the brush of Harry’s hand like the plague, instead moving back to stand at Merlin’s shoulder.

“We have several leads on the sellers, though no description and location, other than the general location of Barcelona,” Merlin said. Harry began to page through the file, noting the sparse typing on the page regarding their targets. “We know that one enjoys the nightclub district, though his tastes are…eclectic.”

Arthur wrinkled his nose. Harry felt his brow knit, and kept his eyes on the page. That argument would do nothing but get him in trouble. Sodomy laws had been repealed and off the books since 1967, and still the pervading attitude around the table was that it was better not seen, heard, or talked about.

Harry was a headstrong young man, but even he knew better than to talk with his elders about this. Whilst he and Thomas shared drinks weekly and debated all sorts of subjects, including this one, the sour expression on Arthur’s face told of a man who’s mind was made up and set in his ways. Harry frowned and turned the page, seeing a list of nightclubs scrawled in a spidery but tidy hand.

“While my first suggestion is to get what you need via phone taps and listening devices, there may be issues with getting close enough or flailing about not knowing where to go with such limited information. Time is of the essence and we have little choice with the delicacy of this operation,” Merlin said. “I should like to attend you in the field, but I have duties here. You will need technical assistance on this mission, and someone to monitor the taps – while Central can do it, the limited scope of our new communications lines means that we must tap each new location for encryption, and it will take no more than three days to get the secure lines up and running.”

“Send a field tech,” Arthur said. He flicked his fingers at Merlin as though the old man should have known to do this, and Harry, curious, watched the old man’s eye get a curious gleam in its rheumy depths.

“Our field techs are otherwise occupied, as you well know, Arthur, you assigned them yourself. I have but one other tech to send.” Merlin glanced at the young man beside him, and Harry felt himself tense.

Callum Craig was standing demurely just behind Merlin’s shoulder, hazel eyes meeting Arthur’s head on. It was almost a challenge, one that Harry had seen before – during his training for Gawain, he’d leveled the same look at Arthur as he’d gathered not one, but five leashes. The dogs would have been fine, but Craig had insisted, demanding that he should take them on when Arthur had given the casual threat of drowning the puppies that didn’t have an owner.

This mission had suddenly gotten much more interesting, at least for Harry. Thomas was watching Callum with a shrewd look, his faded blue eyes searching for something in the tense set of the young man’s jaw. Arthur looked almost like he was going to snap something uncomplimentary, but instead, he shrugged. This was a conversation the spymaster and his wizard must have had already, Harry realized. Merlin nodded at Callum, and he straightened his shoulders.

“Very well,” Arthur said. “Agent Emrys, you will join Galahad and Lancelot on this mission in a non-combat and advisory capacity. Under no circumstances are you to engage with anyone outside of this scope. Am I understood?”

“Sir,” Callum said. It was the first word he’d spoken all evening, and Harry marveled that he had been able to keep his mouth shut. Still, Emrys. A good way to label their nascent Merlin, slated to take over once the current one retired.

Harry found he almost preferred Callum. This mission had just gotten very interesting indeed.

“Now that we have that settled, are there any further concerns?” Arthur asked. Harry caught the tail end of his peevish tone; it was rare that Merlin outmaneuvered Arthur – at least in public like this. The silence from himself and the other Knights bordered on uncomfortable. “I expect reports no later than twenty-four hour intervals. You’re dismissed.”

One by one, the red lights on the panel winked out as the Knights disconnected from their secure lines. Thomas and Harry’s lights blinked out last, the two of them pulling their earpieces from their ears. It was time to pack and prepare, and that meant quite a bit of planning to do. He hoped that Spain wasn’t going to be too hot. He couldn’t abide sweating, unless it was worthwhile to do so.

* * *

Thomas knocked on his office door jamb. Harry looked up from where he was disassembling his Tokarev for concealment. There were reasons Thomas had keys to his flat, but he was glad Lancelot knew to knock before entering.

Rain pattered on the windows, and Harry was busy packing. It was early evening, and the sounds of vehicles on the street had long since muted to a dull pass every now and again outside his windows. Thomas was dotted with rain, though his outer coat (likely left in the hallway on its customary hook) had taken the brunt of the English weather.

“I have your travel papers,” Thomas said. The manila packet in Thomas’s hand contained a passport, an assumed name and biography, as well as other various and sundry items, such as his hotel reservations. “You and Emrys will rendezvous at the tarmac tomorrow at eight am sharp. My flight leaves earlier tonight, and I hope to be checked in at the hotel by the time you arrive. We don’t know each other. I’m a professor of History studying the Moorish spread during the Crusades and writing a new book. You two are on holiday from St. Andrews. Your parents sent you off to see the sights and take in the world before you both settled down and have a family right after college.”

“Straightforward,” Harry said, finishing his disassembly of his pistol before he wiped his hands and took the packet. “I like it.”

“Straightforward is best,” Thomas reminded him. “Drink?”

“Yes, please,” Harry said. Thomas stepped to the small sideboard, fishing ice from the small refrigerator and starting on a dry martini. “What do you think of our tag-a-long?”

“I think you’re far too excited about it,” Thomas replied. “Why is that, I wonder.”

It wasn’t a question.

“He’s interesting,” Harry said. He glanced up at his mentor, who was shaking out the drinks. “Did you know he failed his final test as Gawain because he wouldn’t fire on his dogs?”

“I do,” Thomas said. “I also know that he can tell the difference between a live weapon and one filled with blanks. It doesn’t matter, he’s not a blooded Knight.”

“It doesn’t make him less interesting,” Harry argued, wrapping the parts of his gun in a soft, oiled cloth and storing it at the bottom of his brief case’s false bottom. He had confidence that he could reassemble it within three minutes in good working order, but it was still a comfort to know he had the dual holsters resting beneath his coat. “In fact, it just makes him moreso. Why would he still consider a job here?”

“Your natural curiosity does you credit, boy,” Thomas said. Harry didn’t ruffle at the term. It was more endearment when it fell from Thomas’s lips, like the older man didn’t want to call him ‘son’ or ‘lad’ and have his carefully maintained façade of caring broken, especially when they were under Arthur’s gaze.

“There’s a but in there, I’m sensing,” Harry said, taking the martini glass offered to him. As he sipped the drink, he watched Thomas rotate the stem of his glass between his fingers.

“Caring,” Thomas said. “It does you no favors in this business, Harry. You need to know this as well as I do, and you need to take it to heart. Loving and home and family have no place in a Kingsman’s life. We keep our friends at arms’ length if not further, and we grow to be solitary men.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Harry said. He had a feeling he might, but—

“Emrys is not meant to be your friend,” Thomas said. “Nor is he a plaything. He is a vital part of our mission, and you’ll refrain from needling him while we’re on it.”

Harry was somehow not surprised that Thomas had seen straight to the heart of him in a single glance. Thomas was uncannily good at reading between the lines of Harry’s efforts, and perhaps that was why he’d sponsored Harry to Kingsman in the first place. Harry frowned, draining the last of his martini from the glass.

On some level, he knew that where Thomas was coming from, he believed himself to be right. There was a small, limited number of people that Harry trusted with his secrets, and Thomas was one of them. He knew that his mentor had no issue with him or his choices of partners, and in fact had stated that it might become useful on mission, but there had never been mention of relationships or even love.

It was a taboo subject in their line of work. Love meant caring, and caring could cripple a Kingsman. Families could be tortured, murdered. Fingers broken until a loved one’s location was given away. Family men were discouraged from joining (usually gently, and most understood and withdrew from the selection process after the first round of testing). But—

That didn’t make it stick in his throat any less. Perhaps his mother had been right, and Harry was soft-hearted in a way that would get it broken, more than once. Well, he decided, perhaps that was for the best. Rather a caring heart than another cold and unfeeling man like the one that sat in Arthur’s chair.

“Understood, sir.” He set the empty glass carefully on his blotter before he went to work storing more ammunition in his bags. “Your concerns are noted.”

“I hope they have been,” Thomas said. He finished his drink, setting the glass to the side of the small sideboard so it could be washed. “For both of your sakes. Nothing but pain lies down that road, Galahad, and I should like you to avoid it, if you could.”

“Just like you avoided it with me,” Harry said, his tone stiff. He hadn’t meant it in any real romantic sense; he knew that Thomas looked on him like a father might his son. That was the point, however. There was no escaping the grip of feelings, and it seemed pointless to try, in Harry’s opinion. Thomas looked pained, but said nothing. He tugged his cuffs, adjusting his sleeves before he placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“You have the worst habit of caring too much,” Thomas said. “And I fear you’ll be the death of yourself because of it. Or of someone else. And that’s a pain I don’t think either of us could bear.”

He squeezed, and Harry nodded, not meeting his eyes.

“Good lad. I’ve a plane to catch, and you will too, in the morning. Get some sleep.”

Harry watched him leave from the townhome’s balcony, stepping into his cab and driving off into the rainy night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
> OKAY SO.
> 
> I know I promised SOMEONE out there Barcelona fic. This has been referenced by Bearfeathers and I constantly, and it's about time I got this monster out of my head. I plan on working on this alternately between posting chapters of P&M. There's also rumblings of Rhodes fic as well, but you'd have to talk to Bearfeathers about that. As always, you should be reading my partner in crime's fic as well -- [As Heavy As A History Book Can Be](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12198105).
> 
> Thanks for reading, and if you liked it, don't hesitate to leave comments!


	2. To Transform

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I love danger and danger means you, where the bullets fly._

Callum Hamish Craig had a chip on his shoulder that could be seen from space. It could be said that the nascent Merlin felt out of place amongst the rest of the techs, pulled directly from the lineup of Kingsman hopefuls that were meant to be cast from the wayside like chaff from the wheat.

It would also be a grand understatement, in Callum’s opinion.

He’d been slated for the title of Gawain, one of the final two before the trial was completed and a new Knight chosen. His own refusal to shoot his dogs had put the bullet straight into his foot, his nomination from Chester King notwithstanding.

Chester had expressed surprise that he’d made it as far as he had; the nomination had been a token, something that he’d offered as a favor. He had never expected a guttermouth orphan from Glasgow who’d won his way into Oxford only to drop out to get as far as he had. But his sponsor had been proven right, in the end, perhaps.

Callum, stubborn to the last that he could succeed no matter what, had refused to shoot his dogs. He’d adopted five of them, outraged at the casual cruelty of his sponsor’s reply when he asked what they would do with the animals that hadn’t been chosen.

_Well, we’ll drown the poor blighters, I expect._

He’d known the gun was loaded with blanks. He’d disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled that weapon more times than he could count, and he’d inspected the weapon when it had been handed to him. He’d known they were blanks. He’d still refused to turn the weapon on a defenseless animal.

Casual, senseless cruelty was not Callum’s style. And neither was blind obedience. There was a fine line between doing what was necessary, and doing what was right, and for Kingsman to place that last test as a hurdle for someone like Callum to pass seemed remarkably cruel.

Aristocrats could pass off shooting an innocent because they were following orders, but Callum found he didn’t have that kind of disconnect.

However, luck had been on his side. Merlin himself had requested him. He had known there would be no second chances from Chester King, but the offer from Merlin had been a surprise. He’d been tapped to replace the tech wizard upon his retirement, the missive brought by none other than Galahad. Merlin had an inoperable brain tumor, and he didn’t have much longer. It only made sense for him to get his affairs in order, and no one but Callum had caught his eye for the position. Galahad had made that point very clear when he’d handed over the letter of recommendation.

Chester King’s signature on the offer had been a surprise. Arthur had washed his hands of young Callum when he’d refused to shoot his dogs, he’d thought. Galahad explained that Arthur’s signature had just been a formality; the real invitation came from Merlin himself.

He’d met Galahad before, the newest of the Knights save their new Gawain and most thought of him as their rising star. It had been at odds with his first impression of Galahad, having met him the day he’d arrived on the estate.

The Knight had been catching butterflies, knocking Merlin to the ground when a particularly rare specimen had landed on his nose. He’d seemed affably patient and kind, and interested in someone like Callum – specifically when he’d heard that Chester was his sponsor. Callum got the distinct impression that he was an oddity to Galahad, a plaything to inspect and take apart to see how the pieces worked, then to discard once his curiosity was satisfied.

There was a reason he hadn’t decided to respond to things that seemed like a double entendre at the time. Callum needed to safeguard himself, first and foremost. Though sodomy laws had been repealed, an institution like Kingsman was so rooted in tradition that their own laws would supercede anything legal.

And in an organization where people disappeared all the time, it was easier to stay silent and let people assume what they would.

Callum knew better than to buck the status quo there. He was already in deep with his promotion to Emrys. No one, least of all the techs that had been there longer than even the current Merlin, looked on him with favor. Even now, at his workbench that bordered the wall of one of the main labs, he could hear the chatter outside as he packed his tools.

Most of it was related to their own tasks, but the general buzz was directed at the solitary Emrys, packing a bag to go on a field mission with two high-ranked Knights. There was vitriol there, but the watchful eye of the current Merlin kept them from doing too much harm. The most they could do was talk in lowered voices (voices that they didn’t bother to lower around Callum).

The problem was – Merlin wasn’t here right now. Which left Emrys distinctly vulnerable. They knew it, too. It was almost predatory anticipation that brought them so close to Emrys’s workspace. Most of the time they let him be and ignored him (even when he had orders to hand out). Now, however, he could sense they were circling slowly.

Callum shoved his latest project in the bag, intent on working on it in the jet on the way. His gadget bag was twice as large as his clothing bag; that bag was beside the door and bordered on pitiful – he didn’t have the wardrobe options of the Knights, and he didn’t need them, frankly.

There was no bespoke to arm him in battle, just a woodsman’s sweater with leather patches on the shoulder, a size too big for him because Merlin insisted he would ‘fill it in’. He wore the standard tie, work shirt and trousers, and plain, shined shoes.

He wasn’t allowed a shoe blade for fear he would stab himself, and he hadn’t quite perfected the trigger mechanism as it was. It was clumsy right now, he felt; serviceable in the forties but the Cold War demanded something more elegant. (If he started thinking about the toxin that coated the blade, he’d be here all morning; it was far from perfect in a way that drove him crazy.)

He had a gun, but that was solely for self-defense should he be the last line on the mission, and he was loath to wear it openly. It was packed in the bottom of his clothing bag, unloaded and shoved into the leg of a pair of spare trousers.

Emrys wrapped the prototype he was working on in an oilcloth and stored it on top of his gear bag. It was pride of place amongst his prototypes; the Rainmaker was going to be a modern marvel. A gentleman couldn’t be seen without an umbrella, after all, and Kingsman prided itself on hiding its tech within plain sight. Bullet resistant up to a fifty-caliber round, the umbrella could be used defensively as well as offensively, with the ferrule being hollow and allowing for the discharge of rubber bullets – or, should the Knight wish it, live rounds. But the firing mechanism was still sticky, as was the electric stun round that Callum was currently building to aid in neutralization. He zipped up the large duffel, hoisting it over his shoulder with a grunt.

While not the smallest man there, he was still growing into his adult frame. His Kingsman training had left him with a taste for self-improvement, and he kept to a strict exercise regimen. The bag weighed about what their packs had during field exercises, and he knew that the others there would struggle to carry what he could. He collected his clothing bag and made to lock up while he was gone.

Callum walked with a sense of purpose that most of the techs lacked. He strode where they scurried, especially in the presence of the Knights. He glanced around himself, looking for anything he might have forgotten. Finding nothing, he flicked the lights off and locked the door behind him, engaging his handprint lock.

Biometric systems were cutting edge, and the avarice on the other tech’s faces as he walked away from the panel was palpable. Most of them would give their left arms to study it, though he doubted any of them could come close to replicating it yet. Long legs carried him out of Central toward the hangar and his waiting jet, but a voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Finally going to go play at being a Knight then, Emrys?” called an older man by the name of Gleason. Slowly, Callum turned, a brow lifting. Gleason was older, mid-thirties with a rapidly growing gut from too many pints and not enough actual work save stealing what tidbits he could from younger and more naïve techs. He was rapidly approaching past his prime, only squeaking by with prototypes that could be improved on by someone else. He’d perfected a way to conceal a telephone in the heel of a Knight’s shoe, but had neglected to place it in the heel _opposite_ the shoe blade.

…there was a reason his ideas were subject to a lot of scrutiny. Callum himself had rejected his latest prototype, a pen that contained an explosive device. Too clunky to use and too prone to accidental triggers. Gleason was careless, and when carelessness could get a Knight killed, Callum took issue with it.

“Why, does Miami not suit you, Gleason?” Callum asked. There was a silence that fell over the techs then, as though this had been building to a head and the confrontation had been inevitable. Callum having a title made him their superior, but they never failed to remind him of where he truly stood.

At the bottom.

“Oh, no, _sir_. I enjoy going to America only to be ordered around like a lapdog all because I’ve been requisitioned to replace phone taps. I’m being wasted, we all are. And yet here you are, Merlin’s pet, gone to do a mission all your own,” Gleason spat on the floor at Callum’s shoes.

The challenge was obvious. But Callum hadn’t earned his place here without a reason. He merely smiled and turned back, moving for the door that would lead him to the hangar.

“But then, I suppose the posh boys do like a bit of rough,” Gleason called, the disdain in his voice coming with a sharp inhale from several of the techs. Callum froze, his grip on his duffel’s shoulder strap tightening with the creak of leather. Gleason knew he had him, then. “Good old Emrys, does his best work on his knees.”

The thump of his bags hitting the floor was lost in the rush of blood to his ears. Callum Hamish Craig had a chip on his shoulder that could be seen from space, and Gleason knew it.

“Do you have a problem with me, Gleason?” Callum said, his voice gaining a flinty edge as he turned. He made a come-hither gesture at him, beckoning the tech forward before he rolled up the sleeves of his sweater. “Because if you do, you don’t yell it at me across Central. You come here, and you whisper it in my ear.”

Gleason made up for the three inches of height that Callum had on him with his weight, which the older tech would no doubt attempt to throw around. He was built a lot like a barrel, with thick legs and arms and a hard, obnoxious head.

It was hardly a fair fight, in Callum’s opinion, but he squared off with Gleason all the same. Hazel eyes scanned Gleason’s face, seeing the intent a second before Gleason hauled back to punch him in the nose.

Callum simply wasn’t there.

There was a distinct difference between a regular fighter and a man who’d washed out of Kingsman’s considerably grueling training course. Callum stepped outside of Gleason’s swing, catching the thick forearm and yanking it back, up and behind his opponent’s back. Gleason howled, the motion bringing him up on tiptoe as Callum twisted.

He leaned in, right against Gleason’s ear.

“I could break your arm, but I doubt that pain is a good enough teacher with someone as thick as you,” he murmured. “The next time you have a thought related to me, I’d advise you to let it go. Rumors hurt. But not as much as I can. Am I understood?”

He punctuated it by tugging Gleason’s arm up a few centimeters higher. The tech nodded frantically, eager to keep his dominant arm unbroken. Callum planted his foot in the small of Gleason’s back and kicked him toward an assembly table. He smacked into it, opening his head on the wrenches that hung on the wall beside it.

Hardly a fair fight.

Callum leveled a stern look at all the other techs as a few scrambled to get Gleason to medical.

“You don't like me? Stellar. I'll shed a tear in my tea later. But if you get a Knight killed because you're not following my specifications, I'll take you out back and beat you bloody. If they come home in a body bag, so will you. Are there any further complaints?”

No one said a word. Callum rolled his sleeves down, moving to pick up his bags.

“Good. You all have assignments. See to them.”

The techs scattered, and Callum strode to his flight, his good humor at finally getting out of Central soured.

* * *

“What’s that you’re working on?”

Callum startled. He’d been working on the Rainmaker, his tools spread about him on the table in the jet, because he was unable to leave without Galahad on the flight with him. There was no point in spending the money to ferry him by himself, after all, even though they would rendezvous with Lancelot in Barcelona this evening. A two and a half hour flight was being delayed by the Knight in question.

Galahad was twenty minutes late, though his bags had arrived long before he had. Now, here he was, his long legs carrying him to the seat opposite the tech, landing him on the patent leather with an indolence that was almost offensive. Even at eight in the morning, Galahad was delightfully put together.

He took to the bespoke like a duck to water, draped in elegance as though born to it. His suit was a classically cut English Grey, accenting his long waist and broad shoulders, the sunglasses perched on his nose seemingly an afterthought as the sun from the window cast his face in its rays. Curly hair was tamed with pomade and product, laying smooth and neat, not a hair out of place save for an indolent curl that escaped his preening and lay rebelliously across his forehead. Callum found that he could look at him all day, recalling that he once thought him classically handsome, like an old Roman sculpture. A modern day Apollo, late to his chariot after delivering the sun to the horizon, Galahad looked quite at home dipped in the gold of morning.

But then, his original assessment had been with the warm sunset of the English countryside lighting his face, and the fact that Galahad had nearly broken his nose with his butterfly net. He could blame the possible concussion for his infatuation. Now, however, Callum was peeved that Galahad couldn’t even take his mission seriously.

He bit back his acerbic retort, instead returning his gaze back to the trigger mechanism on the Rainmaker. It wasn’t Galahad’s fault that everyone thought he was unfairly promoted. It wasn’t truly fair to lay all the blame on the Knight’s shoulders, as representative of his problems as Galahad was. Instead, he took a deep breath and tried to be polite.

“Late again, sir?” he asked, blurting it as the trigger slipped, dry firing the weapon.

_Shit._

He scrambled to right the Rainmaker, glad he knew to keep the barrel clear while he did this. The umbrella had rolled off its stand, and Callum darted to catch it, swearing under his breath.

To his surprise, Galahad chuckled, sending that same strange frisson of delight through him as it had the first time. He’d barked his knuckles on the table when the Rainmaker had slipped, and the ache brought him back to himself. They might not swell too badly, but it was a reminder that the Knight across from him was not only out of his league, he was also his commander here.

There would be nothing there, never. At best, he would be outed and disappear, because as Emrys he already knew too much about the Kingsman.

“Perpetually,” the Knight said, though he did sound apologetic. “Mister Pickle needed a walk, and I’m afraid I got rather distracted.”

“Mister Pickle?” Callum asked. His hands resumed what they were doing, and the struggle with the spring didn’t seem so tough to get into place with the distraction of conversation.

“My dog,” Galahad replied. “Little terrier. Frightfully good company.”

“Mm,” he said, tongue tucked against the corner of his lips as he slotted the whole mechanism into the barrel. The trigger latched, caught, and then finally lay flat, tucked into its hidden spot where he’d intended for it to go. “Ah, there you are, you little bastard. I’ve got you thumped now.”

“You never did answer my question,” Galahad said, peering at Callum over the rims of his sunglasses. “What are you working on?”

“New weapon,” Callum said. He picked up the Rainmaker and mimed firing it like a shotgun. “Always something extra to keep a Knight well-armed.”

“What does it do?” Galahad asked. Callum couldn’t discern any mockery in his tone, just genuine curiosity. Perhaps that’s why he answered, turning the umbrella over in his hands.

“Suppressive fire,” Callum replied. “Rubber bullets, or live rounds, if you prefer. I’m working on slotting in a taser attachment, but it’s harder to get right as a projectile rather than the signet ring. You have some control there with your contact point. Whereas with the projectile, if you miss, it’s useless. You can use the ring over and over, but the Rainmaker’s will be one and done.”

“Ah,” Galahad said, leaning forward, eyes alight. “I do believe that is the most brilliant thing I’ve seen come out of Central in a while. You really are a genius.”

Callum felt himself flush, Galahad’s enthusiasm for his project almost matching his own. He glanced over to find Galahad watching him. Curiously, there was no attempt to win him over – Galahad was looking over the Rainmaker reverently, perhaps envisioning it in his hand. A tool, to be sure, but Galahad seemed interested in its potential.

“I look forward to seeing it on the testing range,” Galahad said, his smile easy as Callum began to pack up.

The crew were leaving the jet, and it was about to take off. The pilot would wait for them at the airport, but the rest of the crew would remain here. From here on out, they would see to their own bags as far as the hotel.

“So do I,” Callum said, zipping his duffel with the Rainmaker tucked securely inside. “But it won’t be for a while yet.”

“You sell yourself short, Mister Craig,” Galahad said. Callum startled, then shook himself. Of course Galahad knew his name. He’d told him himself, on the estate grounds when they’d met. He was surprised to remember Galahad’s name as well – Harry Hart – but it was easier (and safer) to think of him as Galahad.

“Emrys,” Callum reminded him.

“Merlin,” Galahad said, and Callum looked away.

“Not yet.”

“Eventually. I look forward to it.” Galahad pulled a book from his carryon, the small satchel containing what Callum could only assume were more field tools. He opened it, and Callum got a look at the spine.

Of course Galahad would be reading Malory. Callum snorted to himself, then remembered his original point.

“On mission now,” he reminded Galahad. “Emrys unless we’re in polite company, sir.”

“On the condition that you never refer to me as Sir again,” Galahad replied, turning a page. “Then I will consider it.”

“Uhm.” Callum still didn’t know how to quantify this Knight at all. Most Knights prided themselves on being hard to read but…Galahad was all over the place.

“If we’re alone, or in polite company, you may refer to me as Harry,” Galahad supplied. He moistened his fingertips with a flicker of his tongue that sent an unfamiliar spike of heat down Callum’s spine. “If there are other Knights about, I suppose I can tolerate the Sir. But I find it dreadfully pretentious to be kowtowed to by a man who could have been my equal if he’d decided to pull a trigger when prompted.”

The spike of lust turned into anger in a split second. Callum bristled, opening his mouth for a retort, but then subsided, remembering the pecking order belatedly. He ground his teeth, picking up the mission file once more and opening it to read. Galahad seemed to realize his gaffe, however, and the rustling of pages stopped for a moment.

“That was poorly done of me,” Galahad said. “I should start over. I would like to be friendly, Emrys. I’m not your enemy. Kingsman isn’t, either.”

“Of course,” Callum said, his tone brusque. “No harm done.”

He busied himself with his seatbelt, not knowing how to explain to a man born to wealth and the world on a silver platter exactly how ridiculous that statement was.

“Good,” Harry said. He smiled again, and Callum’s breath caught. It wasn’t a show, just genuine pleasure at being in Callum’s company. He reached across the aisle, offering his hand. “Then, Mister Craig, I look forward to working with you.”

“Aye,” Callum said, taking the proffered hand. Heat suffused him as the long, elegant fingers caressed the inside of his wrist briefly before clasping his hand, and they shook. “I feel the same, Mister Hart.”

As quickly as the moment had come, it was gone again, Galahad returning to his book and Emrys returning to his files, but the air in the cabin had lightened considerably. So had his mood, Callum found. He snuck a glance over his file at the man opposite him.

Harry Hart sat, chin resting in his palm and thoroughly absorbed in his book. Callum suddenly had the feeling that this was one of those moments they talked about in stories. Where two people met and are inexorably linked together, for good or ill. They’d have to follow the thread to the end to see where it went.

Callum found the prospect both terrifying and exhilarating. He knew then that where Harry was concerned, he would have to be extremely careful.

He was already finding that a tall order as the jet taxied off the runway toward Barcelona.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stop starting fights, Merlin. Good god.
> 
> That said, I'm seriously excited to be writing this, but it's hard to go back to when so much of P&M is left to write. However, I'm working on getting a little done each day, whether it's this or P&M. I appreciate your patience!
> 
> If you liked this, feel free to leave a review. They always brighten my day.
> 
> Thanks for your support, Constant Readers!


	3. Heat Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
>     
>     
>       
>     
>      We’re flying on an aeroplane tonight
>     We’re going somewhere where the sun is shining bright
>     Just close your eyes
>     And let’s pretend to dance in the streets of Barcelona
>     
>     
>     
> 
> __

[Barcelona, July 1983]

The jet had only taxied into the hangar and Callum was already boiling. It was hot, hotter than England by a large margin, and he mopped his brow. He pulled off his jumper, folding it and putting it in his bag before rolling up his sleeves.

It had to be close to eighty degrees outside, the sun shimmering off the tarmac and making heat rise as shimmering mirages. The only real relief would be the beach, and neither of them were dressed for a dip. That, or air-conditioning in the hotel. He was glad his work shirt was thin enough that it breathed in the heat, being a soft linen.

Galahad didn’t have the same luxury, being outfitted in a three-piece bespoke. As a Kingsman, he would be expected to remain attired as such, at least until they got to the hotel and he could swap the heavy layers for something more cooling, like the seersucker he undoubtedly had packed. While most suits took into account their wearer’s comfort, Kingsman bespoke also came with thin armor plating around vitals, making them a little heavier.

Callum had been working on a carbon fiber alternative to the plating, but it was still in the testing stage. Galahad must be feeling the burn right now, because he shifted a little out of the sunlight that now blazed through the circular windows of the jet.

He frowned mightily at the sun that had once merely kissed his curls. Now, it was making him cross, like Icarus noticing for the first time that his wings were melting. Sweat gathered at his temples, but he didn’t complain. He merely adjusted his sunglasses, glaring up at the cloudless sky.

Callum had a feeling that Galahad didn’t agree with the weather. For a man who looked at home almost anywhere, the heat was making him wilt just a little. The product in his hair would be gone soon, and it would leave him looking a little bedraggled. That had to rankle him, surely.

The pilot flicked off the seatbelt light, indicating that they could leave now. He wouldn’t show himself, nor would he engage them in conversation; it was critical to their mission that he know as little about their doings as possible. If he were captured, it was easier for him not to spill anything if he didn’t have anything worth spilling.

“Right,” Harry said, unfolding his long limbs and standing. “This won’t do at all. First order of business is to get ourselves and our gear into our hotel. Lancelot should be there by now, but he won’t be along until later in the evening. Plenty of time to get acquainted with the city.”

“Sir,” Callum said, rising along behind him. Harry crooked a brow at him, and Callum swallowed. “Er, right. We should check into the hotel. What’s our backstory?”

“University friends,” Harry replied, gathering his carryon. “Harry Brighton and Hamish Duncan. My father paid for this trip for us both, a last hurrah to celebrate high marks on our final exams. We’re here to carouse and get out the last of our wild oats, before we return to a more demure life in England with our respective selected fiancées.”

His middle name. It would do, he supposed. He often used that when he didn’t insist on being called his code name; Harry was one of perhaps a handful of people to know him as Callum. (He still insisted that it was because Harry had brained him with his butterfly net that he’d slipped and told him.)

Callum’s unease must have shown on his face, because Harry smirked at him. The look was predatory, much like the one he’d worn in the conference room, and it made his pulse speed. Callum had entertained the thought before, but it crossed his mind again – Harry Hart was attractive, but he was dangerously so. It was like playing with fire, and Callum had been burnt enough already.

Callum swallowed, and the moment faded as Harry hefted his bag and turned.

“Relax, Emrys, your virtue is safe with me,” he murmured as he passed. “I’m a gentleman, after all.”

Callum said some very ungentlemanly things in his head about one Harry Hart as he followed him off the plane. He bit them off at the root before they could pass his lips, though. He was smarter than that, at least.

It was frustrating, however. The Knight was like a mind-reader, two steps ahead. Well, he’d had enough of that. Time for business, and that was going to be all Callum focused on.

Not Harry bloody Hart and his damned curl that swept across his forehead. He could admire from a distance, but his hands and his brain needed to be on this mission. There was no sense in proving everyone right, after all.

He was more than capable of managing on his own.

* * *

It took them an hour to track down a cab. _Bloody tourists_ , Harry thought, though with no apparent sense of irony. Their gear couldn’t be carried by hand; it was almost a three hour walk to their destination at the Hotel Neri, and that was unladen. Harry didn’t even want to think about being weighted down with all their equipment, especially in this heat.

Emrys alone had close to two hundred pounds of gear; while it was understandable, Harry didn’t relish the position the tech was in. Everything from weapons to the cutting edge suitcase computer needed to be kept with them, at least until they’d made their way to the hotel.

Harry sulked in the shade of an awning at the airport, standing next to their bags, while Emrys attempted to flag down every cab he saw. He was dressed down, his tie loose about his neck and his sleeves rolled up, affording Harry a lovely view of bared forearms.

Not exactly undesirable, but at the same time he was sweltering, and his discomfort cut into his thoughts about how nicely formed Emrys was. Besides, Harry had already promised not to get attached. He would be on his best behavior on this mission. It didn’t do to dabble with one’s coworkers, even casually, anyway.

Kingsman were discouraged from forming attachments. Should a Knight desire to wed, he would petition to be retired; in all the organization’s secret history, the request had been granted once. The unfortunate Knight—the first Galahad, in fact—had been killed in action on his last mission abroad. He had been buried with all honors, and his new bride given a stipend, but it had been the exception to the rule. The rule had not been challenged since.

Most Knights didn’t form families easily anyway. A certain caliber of man was desired for the title of Knight, and ‘plays well with others’ was at the bottom of the list, right next to ‘can keep up with a discussion of pop culture’. Lone wolves and men of action all, the Knight was expected to lead a life of refined and wealthy solitude.

Be interesting, but not too interesting. Be charming, but not too charming. Be willing to bed a target, but don’t be there in the morning.

Harry found it exhausting.

It was, in fact, one of the reasons that the final test to choose a Knight included shooting one’s dog; if one could not follow orders to the letter because of sentiment, one was not fit to be a Kingsman. Harry had done as his predecessors, pulling the trigger and scaring the daylights out of poor Mister Pickle, but it was still…distasteful.

It was also why Emrys was so fascinating to Harry. The man currently attempting to flag down a cab whilst cursing roundly in both English and Gaelic was one of the only men he’d ever known to still work with Kingsman after washing out of his final test.

Instead of Gawain, he was Emrys, slated to become Merlin. Why hadn’t he pulled the trigger? What caused him to value the life of his dogs so?

Harry had no idea. It made him itch to find out why Emrys was so special. Even now he carried himself with a monstrous sense of purpose, striding like a Knight even though he was a tech. All the other techs had scattered when he went down to Central for outfitting, but Emrys had always met his gaze head-on, only dropping his eyes reluctantly. While not equal in rank, Emrys clearly didn’t put much stock in the pecking order, save when reminded.

Maybe he felt that interest—that spark—as well. He intended to follow Emrys’s career with great zeal.

That still didn’t mean he could get involved.

He was broken from his musings by a large cab finally stopping when Emrys hailed it. The swarthy gentleman driving hopped out, squat and muscular, and hauled half their bags to the trunk. They managed to get most of it packed up, then transferred the rest to the back seat.

Emrys gestured and spoke in halting Castilian. The tech’s grasp of the language was good, though Harry himself spoke better French. Emrys was full of surprises.

The cab driver nodded and opened the passenger side of the front for Harry. Harry, playing his part but not liking it much, climbed up front while Emrys crammed himself into the back with the baggage.

Once they were all situated, the driver looked at Harry expectantly.

“Hotel Neri, please,” he said. A thick-fingered hand punched down the meter, and off they went. Traffic was cramped, filled with cabs all idling their way back and forth from the airport to the hotels that dotted the beach and the historic quarters of the city, but it was a sight better than walking.

It was still damnably hot, however. The cab had no air conditioning, and the windows being rolled down did little to cool the interior, letting in the exhaust of cars around them as well. Harry was damn near melting by the time they pulled up in front of the hotel.

Hotel Neri was a stroll away from the waterfront, as well as being located in the historic Gothic Quarter. Right next to the Cathedral, it was a prime tourist destination. There were bars and clubs dotted around the area, and it meant that it was the perfect place to set their alter-egos while they did some intel gathering.

Built around an eighteenth century manor house, the hotel was grand, though Harry had rented one of the nearby apartments rather than book a room. More privacy meant that their comings and goings would be less noted, and it meant that Lancelot could visit them more discreetly as well.

He paid the driver and climbed out of the cab, tugging down his coat and smoothing the front. A bellboy hastened over with a cart at his gesture, made a little speedier with Harry’s apparent irritability. When one dressed like one had money, doors usually opened if you spent a little. He slipped the young man a bill and turned to survey his surroundings.

The bellhop loaded up on their bags while Emrys climbed out, his handkerchief mopping at his forehead again. His dark hair stuck to his scalp, sweat beading at his brow. Harry dragged his attention away, his smile hardly forced at all.

“Come on, then, Hamish, let’s get cleaned up before we hit the pub, yeah?”

Emrys nodded, falling easily into the assumed name. Harry knew that he used it about the estate and in Central, which meant that he’d chosen it based on ease of use. It was strange not thinking of the man before him as Callum, however. He put it from his mind and strolled into the hotel.

Large carved stone walls met a vaulted ceiling, the front lobby cool after being in the heat of the day. Harry breathed a small sigh of relief, though his expression of contented wealth didn’t shift much from his face. Life was a stage, after all, and he had a part to play.

The young lady at the front desk spotted him and she paused for a minute. Harry was used to the stares by now; it was part of how he got his foot into so many doors on mission. Now, however, it was just going to get him complimentary breakfast, or something. It didn’t matter much, really.

“Good afternoon,” he said with a smile. “Reservation for Harry Brighton?”

“Ah—of course,” she said, tucking a wisp of her dark hair behind her ear. She was a pretty thing, with a heart shaped face and lovely doe-like brown eyes. Her nametag read ‘Rosa’, though he had no doubt she would let him call her anything he liked, were he so inclined, by the way she kept sneaking glances at him from under her lashes. She let her hands flicker through the reservation book, nibbling her lower lip. “You were renting one of the apartments, yes?”

Her accent was charming. Harry nodded, pleased she was quick about things.

“Correct, madam. The largish one on the ground floor.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, finding the entry and rummaging beneath the desk. She pulled out two sets of heavy brass keys with the hotel’s keyfob attached. “Here you are, señor. We offer breakfast delivered daily, should you wish it, but the apartment is equipped with a kitchen.”

“Lovely,” he murmured. He slid over his card, and she handed him the keys while she took a print of his card. He passed one off to Emrys, who was observing this interaction without a word, though Harry thought he could feel hazel eyes on him all the same.

He pocketed his key and retrieved his card, smiling at the assurance that he could have anything his heart desired, should he just call the front desk.

Harry had no doubt of that.

* * *

“Well, that’s an issue,” Harry said, frowning as he looked at the king bed. While roomy enough, he didn’t think Emrys would appreciate sharing. “I’ll have to phone the front desk.”

“No need,” Emrys said, peering into one of the closets. “There’s a spare camp bed.”

“Ah, excellent,” Harry said. “I’ll take that, then.”

“What? No,” Emrys shook his head. “No, not happening. You’re the commanding officer.”

“Yes, and I’m seeing to my subordinate’s comfort,” Harry said with a shrug. “Do as you like, though, I’m happy to swap if you find it uncomfortable. I’ve slept on worse.”

He gathered his toiletry bag and a change of clothing, moving towards the well-appointed master bath. He would let Emrys decide to martyr himself or not, he didn’t have any intention of staying in when there was food to be eaten, drinks to be had, and intelligence to be gathered. As Emrys was going to be staying in the room most often, it seemed like the proper choice to take the camp bed and leave the larger bed for him.

But as he liked it.

“I’m going to freshen up,” he called. “As soon as Lancelot arrives, we’ll get this meeting underway.”

“Mm,” Emrys said. He was already working on setting up his gear, leaving the camp bed for later.

Harry still swore he felt eyes on the back of his neck until he closed the door.

* * *

The sun was starting its descent below the horizon long before Lancelot arrived.

Harry had become a pacing mess, and Callum was about to scream. It was ridiculous, really. No, Callum thought, scratch that. Harry himself was ridiculous.

Finally, the Knight had flopped into a chair beneath the vent for the air conditioner, book in hand, and set to sulking. He’d wanted to get going immediately, but until their rendezvous with Lancelot was complete, they had their orders to stay put. No sense running about with no direction.

Callum was feeling the pressure, however, as the sigh from Harry brought his gaze back into line with the Knight once more.

Harry was just from the shower, his hair curling damp against the nape of his neck and smelling like something spicy and masculine. He’d opted for a linen suit, also bespoke, but as they hadn’t gone out yet, Harry had forgone the armored waistcoat that he wore beneath it, instead remaining dressed as lightly as possible for someone with as many layers as he was required to wear to maintain his aloof, wealthy persona.

Callum’s eye had been drawn to that rogue curl of hair again, fingers itching to smooth it back. It had been a test of will to stop staring and focus on his task at hand. There was more than enough work for him to do, so he knew for a fact that stopping right now would only clue Harry in on the spark of attraction he felt. Not to mention when Lancelot got here, he would be looking for results.

Callum didn’t have the clearance that Merlin did, but it was close. Everything but a Knight’s personnel files and closed missions were his to peruse. He’d spent his time learning about the both of them.

Lancelot was an enigma, really. Mid-forties, with a high, receding hairline, and a stern expression almost every time Callum had seen him, Lancelot still bore laugh lines about his eyes and mouth. His eyes were the faded blue of old denim, and his skills as a Knight were without question; rumor had it that he and the current Arthur, Chester King, vied for the position before Chester had won out.

If it bothered Lancelot, it didn’t show. Tensions had always been high between Lancelot and Arthur. No one knew why—the rivalry spanned longer than the rest of the Knights had been members. Callum didn’t dare go prodding. In a place like Kingsman, where secrets were currency of the highest order, it didn’t pay to pry.

Thomas Brampton had proposed Harry to Galahad; Harry had out performed everyone in his trial threefold at least. Looking at the data, there had been no real contest. Perhaps Harry saw it differently. Harry carried himself like former military; army, perhaps.

Now he was their commander. As the senior Knight and his mentor, Harry naturally deferred to Thomas’s experience. He’d seen it in the boardroom, and he had no reason to doubt it would be the same here. Callum was the low man on the totem pole, but he didn’t mind so much.

Field work was turning out to be an excellent stress test for his portable workstation. Disguised as a handsome leather suitcase, like everything Kingsman produced, looks were deceiving. He’d had to run a splitter from the phone line to his suitcase computer in order to access Central’s latest intelligence reports; everything else about the workstation was portable, save power.

While heavy and bulky, the suitcase housed a small, powerful computer, able to print intel on demand with a punchcard attachment. By flipping the suitcase around and opening it from the other end, it revealed an empty suitcase, rendering the disguise complete. Callum had even used it to store other items, and the hinges and handle had held up well.

He was pleased with his progress, but he knew that the technology was coming to shrink it even further. Soon, computers would be small enough to fit into a pocket—and he couldn’t wait for the day. Until then, however, he’d have to make do with the rather large power supply.

Finally ready to test his baby, he plugged it in and toggled the switch on, only for the air conditioner to sputter…and die.

Harry looked up from his book. “Was that supposed to happen?”

“It…was not,” Callum said, frowning. “I think we might have blown a fuse.”

“Bollocks,” Harry muttered. “Can you fix it?”

“Not without blowing a fuse every time I need to report in,” Callum replied. “We’re going to have to make do without the aircon, I’m afraid.”

“I’m going to pretend very hard that I didn’t just hear you say that to me,” Harry said. He sniffed, then stood, rolling his shoulders. “I suppose I’d better open the windows, then.”

“Can’t do that, either,” Callum said. “Not while we meet with Lancelot, at least.”

Harry made a noise between a growl and a groan, and the frustration of it almost made Callum laugh. But the sly look that came over Harry’s face next made Callum freeze. He directed it at the tech like he knew exactly what Callum was thinking, but then he sat down and pulled out pen and paper.

“Fine, I’ll have to make do. But I’m not making do without _something_.” He started writing, an elegant scrawl that somehow managed to look tidy from a distance, but Callum was distracted by a knock on the door. Shave-and-a-haircut, then silence.

Harry set down his pen very deliberately, pulling his gun from the holster he kept against the small of his back. He jerked his head toward Callum, and Callum drew his own pistol. He’d loaded it once he was in the room, setting it beneath the pillow of the camp bed. Now, he was thankful he had.

The Tokarev was heavy in his hand, but it was a weight he knew very well. He took a crossfire position with Harry, facing the door. He nodded, and Harry moved toward the door, bracing himself close, but away from the door and window there.

“Who is it?” Harry called.

“Courtesy call, we’re neighbors,” Thomas called.

“Did you bring the tea?” Harry replied.

Old code, but solid. When a Kingsman asked another Kingsman if they’d brought the tea, it was a check. Just because Thomas was at the door didn’t mean he wasn’t there under duress.

“Of course. Earl Grey, milk and no sugar. Seems I was out. Perhaps I could borrow some?” Harry breathed a little easier at the reply, and so did Callum. The type of tea didn’t matter, only how it was prepared. Milk meant friendly, black meant not. Sugar meant he had others with him; each spoonful counted as a person. Particularly sweet tea was worrisome.

As it was just Thomas, however, Harry holstered his pistol and cracked the door. Satisfied all was as it seemed, he let Thomas in. The older Knight nodded in approval as Emrys holstered his own pistol only when the door was closed.

Better to be safe than to be sorry.

“Good to see you’ve arrived safely and gotten started.” Lancelot surveyed the setup, brow furrowing. “Has there been any change?”

“Not as such,” Emrys replied. “I’m still waiting on word from Central, sir.”

“Keep at it, then,” Lancelot said. “Until then, I’ve been communicating via the normal encrypted ciphers. Our orders are as follows. You two are to case the nightclubs in the area, and report back any intel you find to me and to Central each day. We’re looking for a man who spends quite a bit of foreign money, entertaining guests of either Russian or American descent.”

He fixed Emrys with a look. “You are to participate in this only for observation purposes, Emrys. I know that you don’t have the normal range that you would with your usual preparation, so you’ve permission to be live on the floor with the short range earpieces.”

“Sir,” Emrys said, trying not to let his eagerness show. A good chance to watch Galahad work in person, it would better allow him to tailor equipment to the individual Knight’s needs.

“Galahad will be gathering what intel he can, while you observe from a distance,” Lancelot said. He turned to Harry, who straightened his already stiff spine when Lancelot’s eyes landed on him. “Galahad, you’re looking for one of his subordinates. He’ll be haunting the bars, looking for young men to take to his rooms for the night. It’s likely he’ll be flashing his boss’s money around as well—word from the top is that he’s high on our man’s totem pole. If you have to, use it as an in to introduce yourself to his boss. I’d rather you didn’t have to, but tranquilizing him and rifling through his personal files might help.”

Emrys glanced away. That would work; if he were openly casing for someone to sleep with, Harr—Galahad would be a prime candidate. Honeypot missions were not uncommon, though usually they were arranged with the opposite sex as a target.

He wondered how Galahad would pull this off. Probably flawlessly, remembering his intrapersonal skills. Galahad was a born flirt, if his interaction with the young woman at the front desk was any indication. Another reason to avoid falling into that trap.

None of the Knights meant what they said. Sincerity was a tool, something they used just the same as a set of lockpicks or a magazine for their pistol. It wasn’t real. None of it was. All that mattered was data; this was just another confirmation of that fact.

“Sir,” Galahad said. “Where are you working?”

“I’m a British arms dealer, feeling out where I might be able to purchase some of the nuclear material that our target is peddling,” Lancelot replied. “It’s best that you don’t know the details. Just know that I’m making my own inquiries, and that I’d stick out like a sore thumb, doing what you’re attempting. You have a much better chance at finding things out pursuing this lead.”

“Sir,” Emrys said. He rose, moving to get the short range earpieces from his luggage. “Is there anything else from Central we should know?”

“Not as such,” Lancelot said. “Keep in mind that I’ll be by to check on you if your reports are late. Anything might help us in identifying our arms dealer.”

“Yes, sir,” Galahad said. Lancelot gave them both a look, but nodded gravely, satisfied by what he saw.

“Very well,” he said. “My watch is ended. I move about during the day, you two move in the evening. We will meet in the middle and figure out where our man is hiding.”

“A solid plan,” Galahad replied. “We’ll see you tomorrow morning, say dawn?”

“Agreed,” Lancelot said. “And the both of you, do be careful. This is Emrys’s first field mission, and I’d rather not have it be his last.”

Emrys swallowed. That was a real possibility, he knew; training couldn’t account for everything, and he didn’t have eyes everywhere. _If only._

“I’ll look after him,” Galahad said, his lips quirking in a small smile. “You may count on me.”

“Keep that in mind, Galahad,” Lancelot said, wearing a stern expression as he moved for the door. “I wish you both luck.”

They waited several heartbeats after Lancelot had left before Harry turned, his grin almost infectious. Calllum realized he’d matched his smile, the both of them excited for their first night out.

“Fancy a drink, Emrys?”

Emrys found he rather did. It was time to get to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for days off. Finally got a chance to sit down and write a little. Chapters should be alternating between Harry and Merlin's perspective now, unless I need to focus on one or the other narratively. As always, thank you for reading, and your comments and kudos mean a whole lot to me. :)
> 
> A few notes:
> 
> \- For ease of reading, I am using Fahrenheit for temperatures, specifically to avoid confusion from my American readers. (Sorry, Brits.) Barcelona averages about 28C on a normal July day, which would definitely be hot to our lads. Harry is also a bit of a whiner in the heat, unless he's working on something.
> 
> \- Thomas Brampton, as I've mentioned before, is Harry's mentor and the Lancelot before James Spencer. His faceclaim is [Sir Anthony Hopkins](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/53/d0/53/53d053e5bd942e27b5908cf774aa3fb6.jpg). [I have my reasons for this.](http://media.gettyimages.com/photos/actors-sir-anthony-hopkinsand-colin-firth-in-a-scene-from-arthur-picture-id638827834)
> 
> \- If you haven't, you should definitely see the post that [rsherlocked](http://rsherlocked.tumblr.com/post/166502324870) made regarding our tiny agents. LOOK AT THEM. I just wanted to bring that to your attention. :>
> 
> \- The tea code is _all_ Bearfeathers.


	4. Drunken Lullabies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
>     
>     
>       __
>     
>     
>         _I met you in the dark
>     You lit me up
>     You made me feel as though
>     I was enough
>     We danced the night away
>     We drank too much
>     I held your hair back when
>     You were throwing up
>     
>     Then you smiled over your shoulder
>     For a minute I was stone-cold sober
>     I pulled you closer to my chest
>     And you asked me to stay over
>     I said, I already told you
>     I think that you should get some rest
>     
>     I knew I loved you then
>     But you'd never know
>     'Cause I played it cool when I was scared of letting go
>     I knew I needed you
>     But I never showed
>     But I wanna stay with you
>     Until we're grey and old
>     Just say you won't let go
>     Just say you won't let go_
>       
>     
>     
>     

What spy movies neglect to tell you is that gathering information takes time. Interminable periods of waiting in the space of heartbeats of action, returning to waiting again. Callum was not nearly as upset by this knowledge as perhaps his counterpart was; Harry was a man of action, in that he was attempting to drive the young tech insane with his pacing.

They had been looking for reliable leads for a week. None had shown themselves as of yet, and slowly casing the clubs in the area for potential marks was more difficult with the censure placed on seeking same-sex partners. Harry might have been lost had it not been for Callum’s timely intervention; he knew what he was looking for in that particular scene, and he was able to warn Galahad away from several encounters that might have ended up with the Knight either under attack or arrested.

It was slower going than Lancelot’s lead, and Emrys supported his senior where he could, finding information and arranging weapons caches during the day so that Lancelot’s story would check out.

Things were easier in the early morning, when Harry fell asleep, face down in the pillows with one tugged over his head to block out the sun that peered into their windows. Callum was able to concentrate on sending and receiving data back to Central. It was easy to lose himself in his work, even with the distraction of Harry’s bare back as he kicked off the blankets in the mounting heat of the room.

It was strangely intimate, these moments of quiet. He could work unbothered, and Harry’s breathing was almost a balm to his nerves after the music and press of crowds in the club. He refused to entertain the idea that he could get used to looking over and being able to count the freckles that were scattered across Harry’s spine like the sun had kissed him personally. That wasn’t exactly work-friendly, and he shook himself.

Callum kept a cup of tea near to hand, sipping as he typed on the keyboard, his pen tucked behind his ear. It was warm, but not as uncomfortable as some of the server rooms he’d worked in, and so when Harry sleepily complained of the heat, Callum merely opened a window. His work shirts were thin and he was able to power through the heat of the day.

He would catch a nap by two in order to be awake at eight, when Harry would be ready to case the clubs again. It was a bit of a strain, but nothing he couldn’t work with. He was the support for both Knights in the field, even though Lancelot had things well in hand. He often found himself yawning by about ten in the morning, however.

Eventually, though, Harry would rouse around noon and trudge into the bathroom, clad only in a pair of shorts. Naturally curly hair escaped him, leaving him with bedhead that was simultaneously unruly and inviting, offering Callum the opportunity to run his fingers through it, should he choose.

Callum staunchly declined the offer, telling himself all the things that could befall him should he choose to give into that urge. For one, dalliance with a superior. For another, Harry Hart was trouble on long legs. For a third, Lancelot’s gaze saw way more than the older Knight admitted, leaving him feeling paranoid about his reactions in public.

Instead he rose and prepped a cup of tea, setting it beside Harry’s bed and returning to what he was doing. He’d learned to work with distractions before. It would be fine.

On the eighth day, it was boiling in the room. The heat from the portable computer combined with a particularly sunny day meant that Callum was slowly roasting. At nine in the morning, Harry sat up with a grunt and a muffled curse, yawning.

“All right?” Callum called. Harry trudged into the attached kitchen, standing in front of the open freezer door and chugging a glass of water.

“No, I’m not bloody all right,” Harry replied, squinting at the sun like it had personally betrayed him. “How do you stand it?”

“One does what one must,” Callum said. “I can’t change the weather, or the fact that we need the computer.”

“I’ll have to do something about the lack of aircon, though,” Harry said, wrinkling his nose. “I can’t get any sleep at all at this rate, how am I supposed to look like I’m enjoying myself with smudgy eyes?”

“Pretend you’re an alcoholic,” Callum snarked, his voice tart. Harry shot him a sharp look, and Callum inhaled, freezing briefly as he recalibrated himself to reply politely. “I’m sorry. Perhaps the heat is getting to me more than I thought it was.”

They stared at each other for just a moment, and Callum couldn’t tell who was more surprised by his outburst – himself or Harry. Both of them were hot and tired, sheened with sweat and near delirious with frustration at both their living conditions and the numerous dead ends afforded to them by their plan of attack. There was a brief flash of assessment across Harry’s face, as though he were re-evaluating him. Callum kicked himself, realizing he might have just blown a prime assignment by being rude to a superior, no matter how querulous he might have gotten.

Instead, however, Harry reached for his shirt. His smile was secretive, as though Callum’s anger was finally showing him something he wanted to see. Callum wasn’t sure what that something was, and he frowned, but Harry was already moving.

“Then let me fix it,” Harry said. “Back in a tick.”

He was dressed and out the door in record time, Callum left blinking. He couldn’t exactly stop Harry now, and he doubted he could have before. The tech sighed, rubbing his forehead. Galahad was known for his flights of fancy amongst the other techs, but he’d never shown his temper to Callum. Now his superior was out doing God-knew-what and possibly blowing their cover. All because Callum had snapped at him.

He took a deep breath before he finished off his now-tepid tea. It was somehow better now than when hot, though sweet iced tea was never in his taste to be enjoyable – the Americans had a funny way of warping everything Britain held sacred.

Perhaps Harry had been right about the heat. Surely there had to be a way to circumvent it, but he was too sweaty and too sleep-deprived to think of anything.

Harry must have had a solution, however, because in an hour he was back, several bags of shopping in his hands. He hauled in a five-gallon plastic bucket, like one would use to carry paint, packed to the brim with other hardware. He nudged the door shut with his foot, not meeting Callum’s eyes.

“Hide the equipment,” Harry instructed. “Room service is going to be by with ice.”

Callum did as told, closing his case and unplugging the computer, rendering it indistinguishable from the other cases in the room. He peered at what Harry was doing, loosening his tie and taking it off. There wasn’t anything else for him to do save watch Harry work.

“I’m shocked they didn’t teach you this in field training,” Harry murmured, glancing up at him. “Hand me one of your pocket knives, would you?”

Callum fished out one of his blades he used to strip wires in the field, handing it over. The brush of Harry’s fingers against his was distracting, but not so distracting as to pull his attention from what the Knight was doing. He sliced a neat hole in the top of the bucket, popping the bit he’d sliced out and setting it aside.

“You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to find a small enough fan,” Harry said, pulling the small desk fan out of his collection of items and taking it apart. “Do you have screwdrivers in your kit?”

Callum unrolled his field kit and selected the proper size for Harry by sight, handing it over. Harry carefully worked the cage of the fan apart, fastening it back over the hole that he’d made. As he tightened the screws, he started humming something soft and toneless. It reminded Callum a bit of how he was prone to muttering to himself as he worked on something. It was comforting, he knew, and eased his thoughts onto the problem rather than focusing himself on what he couldn’t do about it.

With the fan in place, Harry turned his attention to the bucket itself. He reached across Callum to find the tool he needed, pulling out the little hand drill that was normally used for planting bugs. With his tongue tucked in the corner of his mouth, Harry drilled holes all around the neck of the bucket, varying their placement almost like that of a cheese grater. He made some bigger, some smaller, but in the end it was a variable pattern that had no real distinction.

Normally, Callum would be offended that someone would co-opt his tools that way, but Harry was teaching him something new. He’d never seen something jury-rigged like this, and it was fascinating. When he had an idea he wanted to put into practice, he’d always machined the parts himself, but out here in the field, Harry was a maestro. Galahad moved with the surety of having done this before, knowing exactly where to drill the holes he needed.

Callum was beginning to understand why Harry was considered one of the best agents in the field. Not because of his combat skills, though those were impressive, but because of how he thought on his feet. His skills were varied and eclectic, and Callum understood why he was so praised. Harry looked up, catching Callum watching him, and he grinned.

Their heads were close enough to knock together, and Callum felt his breath catch. He’d warned himself about this, about letting this get under his skin the way it had. He gave a shaky inhale, hazel eyes meeting ones that were warm in the way that chocolate could be, inviting in a way that would ruin them both.

“Emrys—"

A knock on the door startled them both, and Harry swore quietly as Callum stood with a jerky unfolding of his limbs, stumbling to the door like he was waking from a dream. He peered through the keyhole, and satisfied that it was just the ice, yanked the door open and babbled a thank you. He took the insulated bucket of ice from the bemused bellhop, slamming the door and locking it tight with the bucket clutched to his chest.

“I suppose it’s a good thing I insinuated we were day-drinking,” Harry said, his brows lifted in surprise. Callum just sighed and stuck the ice in the freezer. “Have you been to the United States?”

“Once, during field training,” Callum said. “We were on loan to Anchorage for winter maneuvers.”

“Almost as cold as the Alps, I’ll wager,” Harry said, finishing with the bucket and dumping the shavings into the garbage. “Wet down those spare towels and bring them here, then.”

Callum did as he was told, dampening the towels. Harry took them from him, draping them across the bucket’s neck and the holes he’d drilled until none of the holes were uncovered by the cloth. Satisfied, he rose and fetched both the ice and the pitcher, filling the pitcher with water and filling the bucket until the water nearly reached the hole.

With a start, Callum realized what Harry was doing. He was putting together a condensation cooler, something to cool the room without drawing the power that the air conditioner would use. The ice would chill the water even further, and as the air was sucked into the intakes on the side, it would release cold air, pushed by the fan, out of the top.

“Salt would chill the water further,” he said, and Harry made a pleased sound as Callum moved to get down the bag they kept for what little cooking they did in the apartment. He took the bag and added some to the water while Callum sank down onto the bed beside him, watching him finish his build. “Where did you learn to do this?”

“I was on a mission that took me to the Gulf Coast,” Harry said. “Dreadfully hot, and Louisiana is the worst place to be without air conditioning in the summer. Luckily for me, I had a good friend who was better with improvised tech than I was, and he showed me this little trick.”

“It’ll save us a bit of bad temper, at least,” Callum conceded, and Harry nudged him. Despite himself, he chuckled. “I can see about rigging a solar panel, too, so that there’s no electrical draw from the grid at all.”

“Ta, Callum,” Harry said.

Callum’s heart did a curious stutter-step at the fondness in Harry’s voice, and he looked away, willing his pulse to settle. He didn’t need this, not right now. He added ice to the bucket, and Harry snapped the top on, plugging in the little fan. As it whirred to life there was a rush of cooler air past his face, and Callum sighed out, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“We should both rest,” Harry said, giving Callum a look. “I know that you’ve been up and about keeping Lancelot in the loop, but you’ll be useless tonight without a proper sleep. This club we’re going to seems to be the one that we need, and I need you sharp.”

“Is that an order?” Callum said. They were still too close, Harry’s knee nearly touching his as the Knight gave him the sternest look that a man in his early twenties could give. Maybe he was pushing it with the cheek, but something about Harry made him feel like he could trust him.

It would ruin him.

“Does it have to be?” Harry asked.

“No,” Callum conceded. “I should sleep more, you _are_ right. There’s not enough hours in the day to get what I need finished. But if you need me tonight, then you’ll have me.”

“Good man,” Harry said, clapping him on the shoulder. “Let’s turn in, then.”

The room was already noticeably cooler, and Callum made sure to shut the windows before he pulled the blinds. With the room dimmed and the cool air flowing, he was already sleepy, despite the tea he’d drunk. He moved to the bathroom and changed out of his day clothing, settling into his pyjama pants and a dark tee before brushing his teeth and padding barefoot across the room’s plush carpet back to his little sleeping space.

He thought, perhaps, that Harry was already asleep again, but he caught his gaze as he sat down on the camp bed. Galahad was staring up and the ceiling, his hands linked behind his head.

“Are you going to sleep?” Callum asked him, making ready to curl up on his side and drift off.

“Yes,” Harry replied. “Soon.”

“Good,” Callum replied. “Hate for you to be a hypocrite.”

There was a huff of laughter from the bed, but Callum barely heard it as he yawned, turning onto his side and closing his eyes. The last thing he heard was the fan’s gentle whirr as the room got cooler and cooler.

* * *

The night had been a disaster, Harry thought with a grumpy snort. Not only had his line on a club that catered to the gay scene been shot down, he’d still been unable to find his mark. The club had been fine, but it wasn’t the haven for same-sex connections that Harry had hoped. He’d met a couple of other men (and gotten their numbers), but none of them had been the lieutenant he’d been looking for – and last call was now.

Thomas was making much more headway with his weapons dealer persona, and the fact was frustrating him.

Surely it shouldn’t matter, but Emrys had been distracted on the comms all night as well. With the Scot in his ear it was easier to navigate this mess, but he’d been sidelined at the bar, talking to someone else. Harry didn’t like to admit jealousy (at least not out loud), but it was time for him to collect his partner and he was feeling waspish.

There was a couple at the bar next to where Emrys was seated, talking animatedly at him. Swingers, most likely, what with the way that the woman kept moving to place her hand on Emrys’s shoulder, her ring glinting in the light. Their French was audible as Harry got closer; Callum was talking just as enthusiastically, gesturing with his hands and laughing. Callum had a rudimentary grasp of French, but he was making do, adding in smatterings of English and his companions seemed charmed by him.

She touched him again, and Callum flushed, his ears going bright red as he chuckled. He took another swallow of his drink, and it was clear that the couple were the only people in the room for him.

Harry scowled.

His expression was thunderous as he approached. He caught sight of himself in the mirror behind the bar, and he paused, making his face relax into a polite smile as he tapped Callum on the shoulder. The tech swung about in his seat to face him, his expression going from flustered and cheerful to pale in just a matter of moments. Perhaps Harry’s smile wasn’t as polite as he thought.

“Come on then, Hamish, it’s time to go,” Harry said, trying not to spit the words from between clenched teeth.

“Oh, there you are, Harry,” Callum said, stammering Harry’s name. It was clear to Harry that Emrys was soused, he reeked of scotch and his eyes were half-lidded. He wet his lips nervously and Harry was sure he wanted to see that expression on his face another time…but not now.

And not for that couple, who were looking at him like he’d broken their favorite toy.

Harry’s smile remained polite and fixed, but his rapid-fire French was anything but, telling them in no uncertain terms that he was going to take his friend home, now. The bartender aided him, reminding them all that it was last call. Harry shoved bills at the bartender and dragged Callum away, the latter swaying dangerously onto the cobbles outside.

“What happened in there?” Harry murmured, having to wrap an arm around Callum’s waist to keep him upright. Not exactly how he’d wanted to get close, but Callum was looping one foot in front of the other and Harry was doing his damnedest just to keep him upright.

He guided Emrys into the alleyway where they wouldn’t be seen, cupping his face and tilting his head up. Emrys’s grin was like a punch in the guts, his genuinely happy smile to see Harry, as though he were a particularly delightful present.

“Hullo, Harry,” he said, slurring his words.

“You’re drunk,” Harry said.

“You bet’cher…bet’cher arse I am,” Callum said, reaching up and clumsily pressing back the curl of hair that rested against Harry’s forehead. “They liked my…my accent. Said I spoke excellent French. Kept refilling my glass. Couldn’t break away or I’d blow our cover.”

“Well…they have good taste. How much did you have?” Harry said, trying not to let the feeling of Callum’s fingers on his face make his stomach twist into the knots that were happening. Callum was having a lot of trouble focusing, his head drifting down to his chest.

“One…an’ a half.” Callum hiccupped.

“Drinks?” Harry squinted at the tech, who was leaning heavily on the wall.

“Bottles,” Callum corrected, rolling his unfocused eyes. “You arsehole, think I can’t get proper drunk?”

“That’s not what I said at all,” Harry said, chuckling despite himself. “I was trying to determine how much you’ve had.”

“Well.” Callum hummed, as though losing his anger almost immediately at Harry. He peered up at him, moving to fuss with Harry’s curl again, his thumb gentle as he swept it back against Harry’s hairline. “I hate your hair.”

“Do you, now?” Harry asked, bemused. Callum hadn’t gotten his feet back underneath him yet, but his touch was immeasurably kind, as though he didn’t want Harry to misconstrue his intentions. He hiccupped again, then cupped Harry’s face, long fingers brushing his jaw and then his neck, making Harry’s pulse speed.

“Mm. Doesn’t ever want to stay in place. Makes me want to pet it,” Callum said, focusing on Harry’s shoulder. “Can’t, though.”

“Why not?” Harry rumbled, his voice gone husky as he got closer. Callum shivered, leaning into Harry despite the reaction. They shuffled a little, as Harry attempted to get Callum moving again.

It would be wrong to take that kind of advantage of Callum. He’d promised, for one, and for another it didn’t feel right. Not here, not like this. Harry wanted Callum’s eyes clear when he kissed him, just so he could be sure that he wanted it just as much as Harry did right here in this moment.

“You know why not,” Callum said. “For the same reason I can’t kiss you. Would comper—compromise the mission. Have to sit there and listen to you make nice with all those gents. An’ why wouldn’t you? You’re Harry bloody Hart. Everyone wants you, and the worst part is, you _know_ it.”

“You think so little of me, then?” Harry asked, chuckling as he got his shoulder under Callum’s arm and got the other man to lean on him. There was a lot of information here to file away for later, and quite a bit of it made Harry’s ego flex just a bit at the praise.

“’S not that,” Callum said. “I’d just be in trouble. Just a tech. I’m already dead weight. You’d be better off in the crowds without me.”

“You’re anything but, Emrys,” Harry replied. Callum swayed beside him. “I think quite highly of you.”

“Yes, but I’m not like you,” Callum said, gesturing with his free hand. “Can’t mingle with the Knights, s’forbidden.”

“Rules are made to be broken, Emrys,” Harry said.

“Not for me,” Callum shook his head, which caused him to wheel towards the wall again before Harry could stop him. He caught himself, barely, and let his head hang down. “Otherwise I’d have done it already.”

“Done what?” Harry asked. He swallowed as Callum lifted his head, regarding Harry with the sort of piercing clarity that only came with being absolutely smashed. He cupped Harry’s face again, his hands sliding into Harry’s hair. The calluses on the tips of Emrys’s fingers made him almost purr with the sensation, and he stepped a little closer despite himself.

That touch was better than anything Harry had ever experienced. It was so…almost chaste, in its reverence, the innocence of it was enough to send his mind reeling. Callum wanted him, just for himself. Not for who he was or who he was pretending to be, but because he was Harry Hart.

The admission was heady, and Harry was moving to pin Callum against the wall without thinking.

“You’re making fun of me,” Callum said, hazel eyes clouded as the space between them shrank. His head tilted, as though anticipating Harry closing the distance and claiming him, and Harry’s pulse thundered in his ears with the rightness of the look on Callum’s face. Expectant, hungry. Wanting. His lifted chin exposed the pale line of his throat, where his pulse was fluttering like a bird’s wings. “Surely y’can’t be so dim as to have missed…”

Whatever he was going to say was lost as he swayed, looking positively green. Harry caught him as he reeled, Callum staggering to a refuse bin and heaving quietly. Harry stroked a hand against the back of Callum’s neck, letting the other man get it all up before he attempted to move them again.

It was going to be a long walk home.

The spell broken, Harry breathed a small sigh of relief. While he didn’t want to take advantage of Callum, there had been a dangerous moment where if Callum had kissed him, he’d have followed suit. There was too much at stake here for him to risk alienating his partner, and alcohol-soaked as he was, Callum would have surely blamed himself for whatever happened.

Harry rubbed his forehead, and hauled Callum close again when he was done retching. He was supposed to be the responsible one. This was Callum’s first mission as Emrys. A dalliance would surely make it his last.

That was the last thing Harry wanted.

* * *

The sunlight streaming in through the window made his head ache. Callum groaned, putting a hand to his face. He should not have drunk as much as he did was his first thought. His second thought was confusion as to the placement of sunlight on his face. The third thought was even more confusion, because he wasn’t wearing his dress clothes and tie, he was back in his pyjamas.

Slowly, he sat up, the whirring of the little fan beside him making him squint as he looked around. He was in the (admittedly more comfortable) king sized bed. Alone, thankfully. He pressed a hand to the soft cotton of his t-shirt, still trying to remember what had happened. Cool air blasted through the room with the swamp cooler, and his mouth tasted like death.

Or scotch. He couldn’t remember much after leaving the club.

The French couple had been pleasant company after sitting alone at various bars for a week. They’d been interested in him, laughing at his accent and exclaiming how adorable he was. It was a sight better than listening to the crude pickup lines Harry was forced to listen to.

Harry—

Oh, god, no.

He’d gotten soused and compromised the mission. Callum squinted around himself, looking for the Knight, but he was nowhere in the room. There had been words exchanged, but Callum couldn’t remember what he’d said, other than the vague sense of belligerence he’d been giving off in waves when Harry had asked him how much he’d drunk.

The shirring of the patio door caught his attention, and Harry appeared, dressed lightly in one of his linen suits. He was perfectly put together for this early in the morning, and Callum felt that shame begin to well up in his chest.

But…Harry didn’t look disappointed. He poured Callum a glass of water, dropped in an antacid tablet, and provided another glass of water with some painkillers. He watched Callum take the pills and sip the glass of water, then pressed the fizzing glass into his hand.

“How do you feel?” Harry asked. His voice was a low rumble in his chest, and Callum tried not to flush. He was sure he was failing mightily, but Harry took a seat on the bed next to his hip regardless. When Callum didn’t recoil, Harry remained where he was.

“Like an ass,” Callum admitted. “But I couldn’t just blow them off—you didn’t need a ruckus throwing you off your mission.”

“It was an honest mistake,” Harry said. He shook his head with a small smile. “Next time, nurse the drink. You don’t have to keep going just to seem polite.”

Callum huffed; thank god Harry didn’t know the real reason he’d been drinking in the first place. Misplaced jealousy was one thing, but on mission it could get Harry killed.

“What happened?” he asked, finding it the safer option.

“I got you home, got you into your sleep clothes, and tucked you in. I met Lancelot alone and told him you were working another angle and needed time to piece everything together.” Harry shrugged. “You can’t be perfect right out of the gate.”

“I wasn’t even passable, much less perfect,” Callum said. He looked away, embarrassed.

“Emrys,” Harry said, and Callum raised his eyes to meet Harry’s. "You're being too hard on yourself. Yes, you made a mistake. Thankfully, it was in an environment where you weren't in any real danger of being harmed beyond suffering a bad hangover. So. We'll just chalk it up to a learning experience and move on."

Shame welled up, and Callum dropped his gaze again.

“I promised not to be a burden,” he murmured. “I’ll work doubly hard to ensure that I’m not.”

Harry reached out and squeezed Callum’s shoulder, the sensation a comforting one. Harry left his hand where it was, ducking his head to catch the tech’s gaze. Despite himself, Callum looked into the soft brown eyes of the Knight and found no censure there.

“You aren’t a burden, never with me,” Harry murmured. “There’s no one I’d rather be in the field with. We’ll make a breakthrough soon—it takes time. I know that I haven’t been as patient as I could have been either, and that must have been putting undue pressure on you as well. So…you have my apologies, and my gratitude, for putting up with my inconstancy. I shall endeavor to do better.”

Harry Hart. Apologizing. Callum found that he was expecting a fever dream rather than the thud in his skull, but he would take it.

“There’s always tonight,” Callum said. Harry nodded. “Though…I think I’ll limit the drinks I have tonight.”

“A wise decision,” Harry said with a smile. “Save it for the debrief.”

Callum chuckled softly and finished his antacid. When Harry rose to get ready for bed, Callum shifted himself to the camp bed. It was nice of Harry to let him sleep things off, but it was better for the status quo that he be exactly where he’d placed himself. That, and the pillow smelled like Harry’s aftershave. That was definitely a scent he didn’t need to get used to, at all.

When Harry emerged in his dressing gown, Callum missed the exasperated sigh the Knight gave to find him in the camp bed. He was already asleep again, lulled by the coolness of the room and the knowledge that Harry would watch over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlin, my god, you are too gay to function sometimes. (I mean, I get it, I'm that gay for Harry Hart too but come on, son, get it together.) This was super fun to write and I wanna thank Bearfeathers for that final conversation between Harry and Merlin because it would be lacking something if that wasn't in there.
> 
> If it seems like I'm posting more slowly, it's because I am. Work has picked up and I'm working overtime for the next couple of weeks until we get someone trained. Until then, here I am. I'll try and get some more P&M done, but it's difficult to balance work and life right now.


	5. Judgment Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       _
>     
>      And you can trust me not to think
>     And not to sleep around
>     If you don't expect too much from me
>     You might not be let down
>     
>     
>       _
>     

Thomas Brampton was no fool. He’d worked with Galahad long enough to know when the mission was going sideways, and he’d been keeping closer tabs on the boy than normal – specifically because of the way that Harry had mentioned their little tag-along.

The warning signs were all there; it was a matter of reading them.

To say that caring about Harry Hart was trying at times was a misleading statement. Caring about Harry was easy – it was the ease of it that was deceptive. He was brash, bullheaded, and unless tempered, would grow into a man with both an impressive temper and a mouth to match. Oh, but caring for the boy was easy.

All he had to do was smile, and the world opened up for Harry Hart like an oyster pried open for the meat within.

Thomas had taken a shine to him after interviewing him at Oxford. He had gone into the army due to a severe lack of anything to do; his father had begged Thomas to convince Harry that lepidopterists were not a distinguished career choice. Thomas had stepped in then, and finding Harry agreeable, had drafted him into Kingsman, into the Galahad role.

Thomas had assumed mentorship, leading the youngest of their Knights in recent memory down the correct path to becoming a gentleman. Missed steps were to be expected; that was why Thomas asserted that one never truly stopped learning. He would mentor Harry until either old age or a bullet claimed him, and then he would have to trust that enough of his wisdom had penetrated Galahad’s skull that he could feel safe leaving his charge behind.

The trick was managing to do that without attachments. Kingsman discouraged them; it exalted agents that kept their heads clear and their hearts empty and willing to do not only what was right, but what was necessary for the greater good. Thomas, despite himself, knew that in a lot of ways he was failing to set that example.

He treated Harry more like his son than a fellow Knight, and he endeavored to rein it in before Arthur and the rest of the Knight’s Council. It was the last thing they needed to see; more ammunition that would only ruin Harry further before he made a name for himself.

When Emrys didn’t show on the eighth day, he watched Harry weave an elaborate falsehood that included the Craig boy’s heroic attempt to keep their cover by drinking himself under the table. Thomas snorted to himself as the taxi carried him outside of Barcelona, into the outskirts of the countryside.

If Callum Craig was sleeping off a hangover because he was devoted to the mission and not the Knight he was partnered with, Thomas would leave his lands and title to Chester King in his will. No, he knew the warning signs.

He’d seen them before, after all.

He sighed and looked out the window of his cab. He had another hour’s ride to the dusty warehouse he was using as a cover outside the city, and he needed to examine what Emrys had arranged him to ‘sell’ to his far too short list of clients. He was hoping their mysterious weapons dealer would show, and save them all the trouble of this farce that Galahad was playing at. It wasn’t that he didn’t think the Knight could pull off the honey pot, it was that he had to attempt it at all that left a bad taste in Thomas’s mouth.

Still, one way or the other, they had to make headway on their respective leads. There were rumblings that there was a big deal going down, and Thomas aimed to be in on that deal, come hell or high water. Kingsman was depending on them.

The car trundled out towards the west, away from the city and toward another day in the country heat.

* * *

Callum sighed, nursing his drink. So far, so good. He’d been careful about his consumption, paying closer attention to Harry’s antics than he had his own glass, and the container in his hand remained half-full, as though he didn’t want to repeat last night. His stomach agreed, even the toast Harry had made him this evening feeling like a bit much.

Somehow, though, the energy in the club was…different. There was an almost forced mood about things, from the way the bartender pushed glasses toward their respective owners to the way the waitstaff moved through the crowd.

The club was an industrial place, almost like the owners had plucked it directly from the warehouse on which it stood. The stools were repurposed rebar patched with flat seats and cushions, and I-beams stretched in strange shapes, making shadows fall across the lit dance floor. It was almost a discotheque but not quite, the lack of Soviet repression allowing for greater freedom of expression here, with mixed results. Stonework caught the eye, but only to draw attention to how sheer and imposing the club was, the second floor less a floor and more a series of lofts that housed seating areas and various VIP areas.

There was an office area up there as well, but the windows were one-way mirrors to the dance floor below, and Emrys had no idea what lurked beyond the door.

He pushed back from the bar, pretending to finish his drink, and he made his way towards the men’s washroom at the end of the building. There was a better vantage point there, the metal steps leading up to where the restrooms were on the second floor. As an added bonus, the wall of sound was quieter there, so he could pay closer attention to Harry’s voice on his earpiece.

While small, and unnoticeable even by the new CIA standards, the earpieces were still works in progress. Emrys had been working on a design that broadcast based on vibrations into the skull, but it was slow going. He still needed more time to perfect it. Instead, he was stuck with small buttons that were short range without boosters, perhaps good for six city blocks before they were no more than the quiet hiss of static and the rising panic that came with a lack of information. They were also two-way, whether you liked it or not. The option to have a one-way conversation was still a few developmental cycles away.

For now, he listened to the clipped and measured tones of Harry’s voice in his ear, trying not to let what was said get his goat. Harry was chatting up a young man down by the bar, all smiles and wandering eyes as he bought the slender, waifish man a drink. Long fingers played over his glass, and Emrys didn’t bother to douse the coal in his chest. It had gotten him nothing more than hungover last night. He would have to bear it.

He’d known what he was signing up for. Besides, it would be over soon. The strange pulse in the club meant that, he was sure. He’d learned to trust his instincts when they gave him this feeling, and that feeling now said that they were going to luck out.

Their mysterious weapons dealer had been too quiet; even the small feelers of inquiry that Emrys had set out hadn’t latched onto a man that was so free with his money. Perhaps he was dealing now and had to lay low? It was always a chance, but Emrys didn’t think that was the case.

He watched Galahad throw his head back, chuckling at a joke that wasn’t funny as the wispy man got closer to the Knight. He wasn’t focusing on that now, however, the distraction of flushing out their quarry enough to pin his focus like a butterfly to a display board. This was something he could sink his teeth into, worry until he wanted to pull out his hair, and solve, unlike the recurring conflict he felt about the man below him.

Someone like their target, that liked to flash their money around, they had reasons for going quiet – either the deal had already been done, or they’d been busy prepping it.

They’d luck out if it was the latter; even if it was the former, Callum was sure he’d be able to track the buyers with enough accuracy that he’d catch them. It was a matter of closing the net, and if his instincts were right, they’d get to do that tonight.

“You look ill,” said a voice to his right, and he startled. The accent was German, but it wasn’t unkind. He looked over to see a man leaning on the railing, much like he’d been doing, looking down into the crowd. The shadows painted his face in stark, angular lines, but Emrys could see that he had an elegant jawline and a straight, aquiline nose. Dark green eyes under arched brows were hooded in the dimness upstairs, and his brown hair was cropped close, in a military high-and-tight style. He was fit, and his shirt didn’t leave much to the imagination as he leaned on the railing, sending a clear message that he was on display without him really trying.

“Too much to drink,” Emrys said, clearing his throat. He made a show of not trying to look, but looking all the same. He’d been closeted long enough that he knew the mannerisms, though it made him a little ill to do it this way – he hadn’t been chosen for his ability to blend in and work a crowd, and he was a little rusty. “It’s a bad habit.”

“Mm,” the man said. “There a reason for your drinking, my friend?”

He nodded down into the noise of the dance floor, where Harry was still talking to the man from before. Emrys shrugged. The assessment hadn’t been wrong, but at the same time it was unsettling that he could be read that easily. He’d been thinking on how to catch their target, but…he had a feeling the target had just walked up to him.

New clothes, expensive watch and shoes, and holding a glass of what looked to be excellent whisky. His new German acquaintance was either independently wealthy, which his Berlin dialect suggested was wrong, considering the dearth of funds to be had there (scooped into either American or Russian maws), or he was making his bankroll doing work elsewhere.

This could be his breakthrough. He had a choice to make: he could try and get Harry up here to tempt the man, which didn’t look like it was going to happen, or he could play this by ear. He had nearly as much Kingsman training as their Galahad, though he didn’t have the field experience. Things could work out for their benefit.

Now if only Harry figured out what was going on so he could provide backup. He willed Galahad away from his half-hearted flirting, praying the Knight turned his way and figured out what Emrys was doing. There had been no codeword for the tech to stumble upon their mark – it was a given that the lieutenant would go after posh, pretty Harry Hart.

Real life had thrown them a curve ball, and Emrys had to play it where it lay.

“Perhaps not anymore,” Emrys said with a smile, leaning his hip against the railing as he turned to him. “Hamish.”

“Christian.” The man held out a hand, and Emrys shook it, letting his fingers linger. The spark of interest wasn’t imagined, he had a feeling, as Christian looked him over.

He switched to German, having a good grasp from his school days. “ _Or does this make you more comfortable?_ ”

“ _You speak my language,”_ Christian said, his face splitting in a delighted smile. “ _You are full of surprises, Hamish. Buy you a drink, or have you had enough?”_

“ _One more won’t hurt,_ ” Emrys hedged, his eyes on his target and no longer on Galahad.

* * *

Harry was getting frustrated. This was going nowhere, and fast. Perhaps, if they changed tacks, they might find another club where their mark was likely to be this evening. This was a wash; there was no one here with knowledge of their mark. Not even the bartenders, when questioned roundabout, could recall a man that spent money like that when Harry dropped hints that he was looking to meet someone like that.

Emrys had to be bored, too, sitting at the bar and listening to these really uninspired lines. While the young man in front of him was undoubtedly interested, he was not **_interesting_** , which was dropping Harry’s desire to be here in the range of nil.

He took a deep breath, smiling his most charming smile, and slipped a fake hotel room to the young man, promising to meet him later. It was across town, and it wasn’t likely to be caught in time to bite Harry later – he would be long gone if they could find their mark, and he never gave out his actual room number.

He took his drink with him, begging off more fine company, and went to search out where Emrys had got to. He really hoped he was taking Harry’s advice about drinking. There was more to these outings than just alcohol, after all. When the bar opposite the one he’d been hovering at turned up empty, he squinted into the shadows, trying to find out where his partner had gone.

“Emrys,” Harry murmured, as loud as he dared on the club floor. The mics were sensitive, though they were developed to project the user’s voice and those closest to them. Still, clubs with loud music could mess with the calibration, and Harry strained to hear.

There was no answer, and Harry gave an exasperated grunt. They had a place to meet if they got separated, but up until now, the tech had stuck as close as he dared, observing and reporting save for the night before. There was the smallest tickle of worry now, flickering at the back of Harry’s mind.

Emrys was in considerable danger, if he decided to take matters into his own hands. Harry carried any number of weapons on him, but the tech was outfitted for a non-combat role at best. While a concealed pistol was great in a pinch, it was still harder to get to than some of Harry’s own tools, and would draw unwanted attention faster than anything.

Harry swallowed, unease running cold fingers up his spine. Where was Callum?

There was, too, always the danger of being outed. The recent HIV scares had turned into a panic, with recent reports saying that it could be passed on by skin-to-skin contact. Kingsman had ruled it out, but the general public wasn’t privy to the information that Kingsman was—and panicked people meant people who made bad decisions in the name of fear and anger. The stigma against homosexuality was rising to levels never before seen, and it was as prevalent here as it was in other countries. They’d had to be careful, and Harry was thankful that Emrys was as knowledgeable in regards to what to look for in a sting to catch people in flagrante delicto as he was.

Emrys was clever, too clever by half. He’d spotted several undercover authorities with ease, and Harry had deftly avoided them. It was clear their nascent Merlin had experience in this area. Even so, Harry would have never lost radio contact.

If he hadn’t ghosted away to avoid being outed, though, where _was_ he?

He caught a conversation in his earpiece then, and he focused on it while he moved through the dance floor, holding his drink close to his chest as though he’d spilt it and needed the lavatory. He listened, picking up smatterings of German phrases here and there.

He didn’t speak excellent German; despite being a polyglot, his focus had been on French and Russian. The rise of smaller computers in the East had made Japanese a necessity, and a jaunt into the Middle East had rendered Farsi an attractive alternative. He only knew the barest of German phrases, enough to get him a hotel, a meal, and a translator – but Harry could discern tone, and he knew the voice that was speaking.

Emrys was having a conversation, and it was intimate on a level that made Harry’s skin cold. He knew that he was being whispered to – the masculine rumble to the other’s voice could be nothing but, and Harry bit his tongue and made his expression appropriately worried for a man who thought his shirt would stain as he made his way up the stairs.

Emrys was nearby; Harry could tell as the reception got clearer when he reached the top of the stairs. The surrounding laughter that echoed in his ear was also audible in the ear that had no radio, and carefully as he could he glanced about, hoping to spot his partner.

Easier said than done. The shadows up here were thick, cultivated no doubt by the owners of the club who wanted a VIP area that appealed to the risqué set. Shadows and mirrors lent themselves to a feeling of isolation, warm and welcoming to people looking to get up to something seedy. Whether that was a backroom deal or just a hormone-fueled petting session was entirely up to the person in question, and some preferred both.

Body guards, body guards…there. The two gentlemen that looked uniquely uncomfortable being where they were; not because of the activities, but because of how open the club was. There was no VIP room, just a platform divvyed off from the rest of the common folk with steel walkways. It was easy to tell who was former military, even Spetsnaz, in a place like this. They wore cheap suits, and likely carried far more expensive hardware under said suits.

Harry leaned against the railing, letting his gaze drift down towards the dance floor as he listened. Emrys was whispering sweet nothings into someone’s ear, and he couldn’t see him still. He wandered towards the lavatories, which ended up being closer to the VIP area than he probably would have liked to get, but his gaze was drawn to a couple sitting near in each other’s laps.

Buying the VIP area meant that whatever went on in there was your problem, not the club’s, and someone had spent a lot of money to keep the area clear. The bodyguards’ gazes swept the walkways leading up, but their backs were turned on the two men seated on the comfortable-looking couch. The larger of the two men slid a hand up the other’s thigh, and it connected with a throaty chuckle in Harry’s ear.

They were kissing, heedless of outside observers as they embraced. Harry felt cold all over, inhaling and attempting to keep himself upright. This wasn’t part of the plan – it had never been part of the plan, and Emrys hadn’t said a word. Anger rose in his throat, thick and choking, as he realized that the man being handled was indeed Emrys, his hands on the other man’s arse and his eyes closed as he was kissed within an inch of his life.

Harry, for a long moment, felt like he was suspended in amber. He knew, clinically, that Emrys must have good reasons for doing this. Perhaps he’d run into the man up here. Perhaps he’d been approached.

A baser, lesser part of Harry warred with that part; hot, possessive jealousy roared to life in his chest as he caught a glimpse of Emrys’s hand squeezing through the haze of incredulous betrayal. This was his mission, his call, his tech. Their mark had no right—

**_His Callum._ **

When _that_ had come into play, Harry didn’t know, but it was there, all the same, burying into his bones with the insidiousness of English ivy as it burrowed into the brick of a building. He would have to examine that closely later, but for now, he needed—

Something. Galahad, for the first time in his career, was at a loss. He was unable to separate the emotional from the rational, and it struck him dumb.

“Meet me,” whispered the man, pulling back. Harry could hear him as clearly as if he’d spoken to Harry instead of Emrys. “I need to see you.”

Emrys was breathless, pulling back and looking absolutely wrecked. His eyes were half-lidded, lips kiss-plump and wet, his shirt half-open. He nodded, looking too overwhelmed to speak. It was a good look for the tech, and it was cemented by the flicker of pink tongue as Emrys wet his lips.

“Tomorrow,” he rasped, and Harry fought the sick wave of realization that this would never be anything more than an act. He’d wanted to be the one to wrench those sounds from Emrys’s throat, to be the one that coaxed that look with his lips and hands. He’d never hear Callum lose his mind because _Harry_ had done that to him.

There would never be anything more.

That wasn’t why they were here, however, and he chastised himself. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Thomas in the back of his head agreed, glad that at least Emrys remembered their mission. He drew every ounce of his training around himself, tattered like the most magnificent of beggar’s cloaks, and focused.

“Tomorrow,” the man agreed. He leaned in, kissing against Emrys’s pulse point. “I can’t wait.”

“I can’t either,” Emrys promised, his voice rough, and Harry’s hand tightened on his glass. “Where?”

“There’s a club on the other side of town,” said the man. “Be there at ten, and we’ll—”

The rest was inaudible as Harry inhaled. There was a crack, and he looked down, realizing the glass he’d been holding had cracked in his grip with an audible pop. He set it on one of the tables that dotted the upper area, and hurried into the bathroom to clean up his hand.

At least one of them could be professional. Harry just wished he could say it about himself, rather than leaving all the work to Emrys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so don't murder me.
> 
> There's another chapter coming either tomorrow or the next day.
> 
> But...I ran out of time and this was long enough as it was, so here you are. I've learned my lessons about languages, so any foreign languages will be listed in italics rather than watching my shit attempt at grammar and syntax. Harry might be a polyglot, but I am not.
> 
> Enjoy, and as always, comments and reblogs on tumblr are appreciated!


	6. Balancing Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> La Douleur Exquise: _(n.) The exquisite pain of wanting someone that you know you can never have, and — knowing that — you will still try to be with them._

Galahad was in a snit. There was no other way to describe the agitated way that he grabbed Emrys’s arm when he finally made it outside, rumpled but flush with information. He was tugged very forcefully into the alleyway beside the bar, where Harry had apparently been pacing.

While it was far enough away that no one would think to look for them lurking, Callum knew that staying here was foolish. Harry ran a hand through his hair, making it come loose from its already fading product and sending that rogue curl dancing across his forehead.

“You were supposed to be there as backup, not get involved.” There was a thread of anger in Harry’s words that made them sound dangerous. Callum squared his jaw, readying for a fight. Harry Hart couldn’t stand Callum stealing the limelight? Well, then, that was on Harry Hart, not him. He’d done his job and made a call he felt was right.

“He approached me,” Callum said with a shrug. Perhaps too nonchalant, but this wasn’t his problem, this massive ego. “There isn’t a whole lot I can do to stop that, now is there?”

“You could have moved away, giving me a nod to show you’d found him instead of putting yourself out there like—like that,” Harry snapped. He made an imperious gesture, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder. “We need to meet with Lancelot and plan our next move, and this isn’t the place to talk about this.”

“Aye,” Callum said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He was still flush with adrenaline, the piece of paper with the club’s address on it burning a hole in his pocket, burning against his leg. He’d done it, and no amount of sulking from Harry Hart would change the fact that a gutter-mouthed orphan from Glasgow who washed out of their posh program had beaten them at their own game.

He’d proven something tonight, he felt, and he ignored the way that Harry stalked beside him, every movement restrained savagery. Not his problem. He might get into trouble, but he had a feeling that Lancelot was much more reasonable than his younger peer. The job was getting done, regardless.

They had their in.

The walk back to the apartment was tense, full of angry, defiant energy—but silent, because loudly yelling the particulars of their tiff would only blow their cover. Barcelona was quiet in the early hours, but that didn’t mean there weren’t still ears to hear them, this close to dawn. It was cool, the heat having dissipated off the cobbles hours ago, yet to be warmed by the rising sun. In the distance, Callum could hear the rush of the waves, but it did little to calm his temper, or his nerves.

They checked their fail safes, little traps they’d placed so they would know if someone had been to the apartment beside them. Callum slipped around the back to check the sliding door, moving like a ghost in the lights from the street. Their markers were undisturbed, which was a relief. He moved back in the shadows, to find Harry digging his key from his pocket.

Callum made sure the fail safes here were clear as well, which prompted a low grunt from Harry. He wasn’t happy. Again, Callum thought, that wasn’t his problem. If he was so grouchy he missed something, they’d both be in for it, and not in a ‘scolding from Lancelot’ way. Nothing wrong with a double check, and he gestured at the back, inviting Harry to check the back deck as he had.

Harry unlocked the door instead.

He was sullen beside him, the walk cooling his temper some. He held the door for Callum, forcing the tech to slide past him chest-to-chest. Callum met brown eyes in the dimness of the apartment, but he made no mention of the tension that felt like a soap bubble between them. He wasn’t going to be the one to break that, and really, this wasn’t his fault. He had nothing to feel guilty over.

He sat down on the edge of the camp bed, running a hand over his face. Now, in their bastion of relative safety, Callum could relax at least a little. The adrenaline was draining out of him, leaving him feeling empty and tired. Still, he would have done exactly what he’d done, the exact same way, with no regrets.

He only spotted the knotted handkerchief around Harry’s left hand when Harry turned on the lamp. It was clumsily done, as though it had been patched one-handed. Harry had likely done it to himself, attending to it before they’d left the club. Rusty stains across the bandage indicated that the wound was still bleeding, however.

“You’re hurt,” he said. His voice was quiet, breaking the silence.

“It’s nothing,” Harry grumbled, shucking his jacket.

“It’s not nothing,” Callum snapped, standing and moving for the first aid kit. “You’re bleeding through your shite bandaging. Sit on the bed, I’ll look at it.”

“No,” Harry said. “You’ll leave me alone.”

“Is that an order, sir?” Callum said, turning and leveling a venomous stare in Harry’s direction.

“What did I tell you about that?” Harry growled.

“That you wanted to treat me like an equal, but we both know that’s not going to happen, not really,” Callum bit out. “It will never happen. Now sit on the damned bed so I can patch you properly, or I’ll sit on you and do it the hard way.”

A scarlet flush rolled up Harry’s neck to his ears, but he sat, cradling his left hand in his right. Satisfied, Callum stalked to the bathroom and pulled out their first aid kit before returning to kneel before Harry so he could look over his hand.

“Let me see,” Callum commanded, and Harry extended his hand. Callum unknotted the handkerchief, revealing a series of small gashes on Harry’s palm, as well as a larger one that was deep enough to cause the oozing he’d noticed. “You daft bugger, no wonder you were bleeding through. This one’s deep, and you still have glass in some of these.”

“I was going to—”

“—sulk and maybe drink a little, yes, I know, but that won’t make the bleeding stop or get the glass out of your hand,” Callum finished for him.

Harry fell silent, and Callum avoided the insistence of those brown eyes, the silent call for him to lift his gaze and look Harry in the face. Instead, he fetched the tweezers from the kit and gently pulled the tiny slivers of glass from Harry’s palm, putting them in a small paper cup he’d brought from the bathroom as well. Clearing away the blood, he realized the gash wasn’t as deep as he’d thought, and he could use his new sealant to close the wounds.

“Hold still,” Callum said, and rose to rummage through his bags. He found the tiny phial and returned, holding it carefully. Less than half the length of his thumb, the phial contained a dose of wound sealant, the green liquid sloshing about and slowly going blue as he activated it with a brief shake. It would be just enough to close the wounds on Harry’s hand, and it wouldn’t stop larger wounds, but it would be enough for now.

He glanced up to find Harry watching him, but he turned his eyes back to his work, his hands gentle despite his irritation at Galahad.

“This might sting,” he warned, and applied it to the largest wound first. Harry’s only reaction was a sharp inhale through gritted teeth as the sealant took hold. Waterproof and movement resistant, it was a nice thing to have when one needed to appear unruffled after a fight. Covered in concealer, no one would be the wiser.

Bruising was harder to hide, honestly.

Once he was satisfied he’d sealed each of the tiny cuts, he cleaned off Harry’s hand before wrapping it in gauze and taping it off.

“Don’t use it overly much for the next twenty-four hours, and you’ll be fine,” he said. He hadn’t looked at Harry again, concentrating on the wounds themselves, but Harry’s left hand touching his jaw made him startle.

His heartbeat went triple-time, the feel of Harry’s callused fingers sliding along his skin electric. Harry tilted his head up, forcing Callum to look at him, making hazel eyes meet brown. His thumb brushed against Callum’s cheek, and he could feel his mouth go dry at the gaze Harry was leveling at him.

“Thank you,” he said. He didn’t withdraw his hand or move closer, his fingers petting over Callum’s jaw with the barest, lightest touch. It made him want to scream. There was always not enough where Harry was concerned, and this was just another warning sign. If Callum were to give in to this, it would be totally. He would jump in with both feet, and love with his whole heart.

And he knew that Harry Hart couldn’t give him what he craved. It would be a passing infatuation. Harry would go on to more and more missions, leaving Callum in the shadows, where he belonged. Harry was a Kingsman—and Callum was not. There could never be anything there, no matter how they felt right in this moment, and it was Callum who shied away, leaving Harry holding empty air as he gathered up the detritus of his medical kit and moved to finish cleaning up.

He could feel Harry’s eyes on him, and he willed him to look somewhere else. “We should make contact with Lancelot, Galahad.”

“Yes, of course.” Harry moved as though he was just waking, but he picked up the phone. Dialing out to Thomas’s rooms, he went through the signal, which was several heartbeats of silence before he hung up. If no message could be intercepted, there was no reason for anyone to think they were planning anything.

Callum nodded as his gentle reminder was taken for what it was. He finished cleaning up, washing his hands in the bathroom sink. Splashing water on his face, he settled himself. It wasn’t just the fact that he’d gotten them their in on their target. It was the fact that in order to do so, in order to move forward, he’d pretended he’d been kissing Harry. That had been…well, it had been the only reason he’d been able to go through with it.

Callum was, as a rule, not demonstrative. It was easier to be aloof, to hold oneself back from what one truly felt. He’d never had the urge to give in to something before, not until he’d met Harry. The fact that life was dangling something like this in front of his face when he knew he couldn’t have it was disheartening, but not necessarily surprising. Aging out of the orphanage, without ever being adopted, had been the same way.

No one would truly want him for who he was, only for what he could do. And because he couldn’t bring himself to be the same way, it was best to be aloof. He could be useful in other ways, and that had to be enough. He told himself that it was, pressing the towel to his face to blot the water from it.

Harry would only prove him right once again, and Callum knew that he couldn’t bear that. Instead, he squared his shoulders and returned to the main room just as a knock to the door sounded, quiet and discreet.

* * *

Harry opened the door after a cursory password exchange, revealing Thomas alone and on their doorstep. Their Lancelot bore breakfast, a basket of sweet, sticky buns from the bakery down on the corner. Callum was putting on coffee in the kitchen, and Harry stepped aside to let Thomas in.

“You’re half an hour early,” Thomas commented, without preamble, glancing around the room to find the windows shut and the curtains drawn. “News?”

“A breakthrough,” Harry said. “We have the lieutenant.”

“When?” Thomas asked, setting down the basket at the breakfast table that sat beside the kitchen door. A half-wall divided the kitchen from the rest of the room, and Callum didn’t meet Harry’s gaze.

“Last night. Emrys stumbled upon him. German, dresses well, nicer than the average income in Berlin would allow.”

“Expatriate?” Thomas asked.

“I didn’t ask,” Callum replied, pulling the percolator from the burner. “He was too busy putting his hands on my arse.”

“Galahad, explain yourself.” Thomas turned his gaze to Harry, who felt irritation begin to tick along his jaw. “Emrys was here in an observation role only.”

“Roles have changed,” Harry ground out through his teeth, running his unwounded hand through his hair. “Emrys stumbled upon him, as I said. He was upstairs, observing, and our mark approached him. As Knight, I take responsibility for that, though I was working the floor below at the time. Emrys was without support, and he made a choice that would ultimately lead to a meeting tonight.”

“Tonight,” Thomas mused. “And you’re sure it’s him?”

“No one flashes about money like he does,” Callum confirmed. “He had the whole VIP area to himself last night, and he has bodyguards. Old military, Spetznas or the like. They were dotted around the whole area.”

Thomas rubbed a hand along his jaw, thinking. “How comfortable are you in a honey pot?”

Callum shrugged. “I can make do, where I need to. My NLP scores aren’t Galahad’s, but I’m perfectly passable.”

“Mm.” Thomas nodded, as if to himself. “Then as senior Knight on this operation, I’m giving you the go-ahead. Emrys will take point, and Galahad will remain and observe. If I can, I will attempt to remain in the area, but I will stick out like a sore thumb at these clubs you’re frequenting.”

“Sir,” Callum said.

Harry nodded, his jaw still twitching. He didn’t trust himself to answer and give away too much, but he wasn’t shocked when Thomas fixed him with a gaze that seemed to cut right through him. Thomas had been his mentor long enough that he was able to read Harry in a way that no one else could.

“Emrys,” Thomas said. “Take an hour. Go out, take a walk. I need to have a word with Galahad, and it’s best that you don’t know what we’re planning.”

“Sir,” Callum said, his brows knitting as confusion flickered across his face. He collected his key and his coat, however, and made ready to leave. “I’ll be by the shore if I’m needed.”

“Good lad,” Thomas said. His expression didn’t change until the door shut behind Callum, his whole face going thunderous as he turned to regard Harry. There was silence for a long time, and Harry realized that Thomas was waiting on Callum to be out of earshot before he started in on him.

Thomas twitched the curtains aside, looking out. Satisfied that Callum had told the truth and was headed to watch the sun rise on the beach, he rounded on Harry.

“What’s gotten into you, boy?” Thomas’s voice was tight with restrained anger.

“Nothing,” Harry protested, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

“You’re going to let your ego dictate the mission now?” Thomas said. “I thought you better than that, don’t prove me wrong now. Stop being nettled that it was Emrys that got the job done and finish things out. It’s a little sloppier than I would like, but he can handle himself, as he’s proven.”

Harry said nothing and grit his teeth.

“You can’t win them all,” Thomas continued, gesturing at the door. “We win the majority, but it’s best to know when to cut your losses. It’s going to happen more times than you will like, and you should get used to the idea now, boy.”

There was no heat in Thomas’s words, and Harry returned his gaze to his mentor’s to find him watching him. The look on his face was curious, not angry, and Harry flinched backward.

Having Thomas think it was pure ego was an easy way out of this, rather than the talk that he had a feeling was coming. The faded blue denim of Thomas’s eyes saw far more clearly than he had any right to see. Understanding lit their pale depths now, and Harry frowned, looking away.

“I told you that becoming attached was a bad habit of yours,” Thomas said. “When did this happen?”

“It didn’t,” Harry said quietly. “I haven’t.”

“When Emrys was drinking?” Thomas pressed.

“No!” Harry felt hot indignation course through him, the insinuation making him feel ill. “I brought him home, dumped him into bed, and went to rendezvous with you. Nothing happened.”

Thankfully. He had no idea how he’d explain it to Thomas if it had.

“You realize how tenuous our hold on this mission is, correct?” Thomas said. “That boy currently holds our only lead on this arms smuggler. He will do what is necessary to ensure that we stop this sale. Rumors have filtered through Central that this is bigger than we even imagined. There are at least sixteen warheads, all with the capability of leveling a city, in this shipment. Millions of people will die if Cuba or anyone else gets their hands on this materiel.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied. He wasn’t trying to sound sullen, and it didn’t come out that way, but Thomas still scowled as if it had. “I am not attached. I just…had a moment where I let emotion get the better of me.”

“So I see,” Thomas said, gesturing at Harry’s bandaged hand. “Did you punch a mirror?”

“Something like that,” Harry conceded. “I promise, it won’t affect the mission any longer. I am, first and foremost, Galahad.”

“Ensure you remember that,” Thomas said. He moved forward, clapping Harry on the shoulder and squeezing. “Emotion cannot be helped. It’s what you choose to do with it that makes you who you are.”

Harry nodded, feeling his carefully constructed façade start to crumble under the weight of what Thomas was saying.

“Kingsman do not marry, nor do they foster relationships,” Thomas reminded him. “Anything you had would be broken, because your loyalty, first and foremost, is to your duty. As his should be. You know that.”

Harry swallowed, bowing his head. It was one thing to be chastised by Lancelot, but it was also quite another for Lancelot to admit that he knew what Harry was going through – the words being spoken had the ring of too much personal truth to be otherwise. He thought of Morgana, the woman who had been more like a mother to him than his own mother.

Kingsman’s personal physician had more than her share of troubles, and Harry would have spared her this, if he’d known. Thomas’s own sense of duty was surely too strong, and her own care for him would ensure that she supported him in his decision rather than fight for more. Like ships passing in the night.

Like he and Emrys had to be. Close enough to touch, but never to meet.

Harry wasn’t blind, nor was he stupid. He knew the sacrifices required, for he saw two people he cared about very much making them every day. Thomas gripped his shoulders, ducking his head to make Harry meet his eyes. Harry did, reluctantly. Thomas’s expression was not unkind, but it was still not what he’d wanted to be faced with this morning.

“Take heart, boy. You do this so that others don’t have to,” he said. “That, in and of itself, makes your purpose noble.”

Harry nodded, but there was a hollow there where there hadn’t been before, as though he’d been scooped out and left as a husk to dry up and blow away. He squared his jaw.

“Sir.” He swallowed hard. “We’ll notify you when we’re leaving. The usual signals?”

“Yes, good,” Thomas said. “I’m going to putter about the town today, make sure I’m seen. Get some rest, and ensure that Emrys knows as well.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry said. He walked Thomas to the door, pausing before opening it. “Does it get any easier?”

The question surprised the both of them, it seemed. Thomas blinked, regarding Harry. Pale blue eyes were clouded with something, though whether it was emotion or memory, Harry couldn’t say.

“No,” Thomas said at last. “The less you have, the more tightly you grip it, and the more regrets you have.”

Harry locked up behind his mentor and pressed his forehead to the cool wood of the door, breathing out a shaking breath.

* * *

Emrys stared out at the dark blue of the sea, currently painted with the soft pinks of the rising sun. A breeze wafted salty air into his nose, but he wasn’t really seeing or smelling anything. He was too busy trying to process what he’d heard.

While it was true he’d left to follow orders, Thomas hadn’t said anything about not listening. His earpiece had been in, and Harry’s had been on the table. When he’d gathered his key, it had been easy to turn it on and leave it in plain sight. No one would think to check the already discarded earpiece.

He chewed his lip, his toes digging into the sand from where he’d removed his shoes. Just a tourist, taking in the sights, after all. His gaze was far away, and so were his thoughts, dulled to the sounds of sea birds wheeling overhead.

Harry had feelings for him. That was what he’d gathered from their conversation. He hadn’t hurt his hand from jealousy that Callum had grabbed the target, his jealousy had been focused somewhere completely different. Harry must have seen them in the VIP area—it was the only thing that would explain his agitation when they were out of the club.

Like pieces of a puzzle, it all fell into place. Harry had been flirting this entire time, and he’d been avoiding seeing it for what it was. It was the way things had to be.

This was, in essence, why Harry Hart was so dangerous. He could very easily be built up in Callum’s mind, turned into something he wasn’t. Callum could see craving more with Harry, wanting to build a life, a home. All Harry had to do was crook his fingers and Callum would find himself running.

It would become toxic. A man like Harry would be a revolving door, and Callum would never be on the right side of it. It would destroy him, especially with honey pot missions being on the table. Callum couldn’t remain professional through those.

He craved…solidarity. Commitment. Things he’d never known and couldn’t put a name to if he tried, all because it seemed stable and safe, yet foreign and exciting at the same time. All of it within his grasp and then yanked away like a schoolyard bully at recess.

Had they been different people, Callum might have tried. But if they’d been different people, who was to say they’d have met at all? Harry’s family was old money, older than most, and Callum only knew his last name because the woman who’d dropped him off at the orphanage had told them. That they should meet at this place, at this time in their lives seemed like cruel serendipity.

Thomas had the right of it; they couldn’t have anything more than something fleeting, and that was no good, not anything he wanted.

Callum scrubbed a hand over his face. Maybe if he hadn’t been nosy, he might still be blissfully ignorant. More fool, him. How was he supposed to face Harry now, knowing what he knew? That was a problem for the walk home, as his watch beeped, signaling that his hour was up, and he needed to get back.

While on mission, their movements had to be carefully accounted for, and he wasn’t about to give them another reason. He gathered up his shoes and socks, tucking them under his arm and heading back to the apartment barefoot. _Just a tourist out for a walk before a night of carousing_ , he told himself bitterly, his stomach turning at the thought of the mission tonight.

There was nothing to do about it now. Or ever.

Squaring his shoulders, he headed back. He needed the rest before they made their move tonight, and he’d need to do so with a clear head and a clear conscience. How he felt about Harry Hart would never matter. For both their sakes and safety, it _couldn’t_. And he would keep Harry safe above all else.

That was his job, and he would do his duty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long, Constant Readers. I've been given a lot of overtime at work, so I've barely had time to focus on writing much. However, I plan to get this story wrapped up soon, projecting by the end of November. Soonish.
> 
> I hope you're all enjoying, and I hope that you're also checking out the main work, [Photographs and Memories](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12165312/chapters/27610590), as well as Bearfeather's sister fic [As Heavy as a History Book Can Be](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12198105/chapters/27697674) \-- as well as the Hogwarts AU that will be updated intermittently, at least until I'm done with Bon Dia -- [A Gentleman and a Scholar: Kingsman Goes to Hogwarts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12594132).
> 
> Thank you all for taking this journey with me. Your comments and support mean a lot, especially when I'm overtired from working too much. They always bring a smile to my face.


	7. Precipice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
>     
>     
>       __
>     
>     
>         _If you'll be my star 
>     I'll be your sky 
>     You can hide underneath me and come out at night 
>     When I turn jet black 
>     And you show off your light 
>     I live to let you shine 
>     I live to let you shine 
>     
>     But you can skyrocket away from me 
>     And never come back if you find another galaxy 
>     Far from here with more room to fly 
>     Just leave me your stardust to remember you by_
>       
>     
>     
>     

Harry was quiet as Emrys entered their small rented flat. He was barefoot, the vestiges of sand on his toes meaning he really had spent his time at the ocean. The tech gathered up his sleeping clothes without sparing a glance, and went to go shower and change.

Harry sighed quietly and lay back on the bed. He’d already changed, his dressing gown over his pyjamas and his slippers beside the bed. He wasn’t really reading the book he had open beside him, his hand across it as though marking his place.

He hadn’t really absorbed the last few pages. Instead, his guts had churned, thinking about everything that could go wrong tonight. There were measures to be taken, of course, but there were so many factors that could go wrong with honey pots. There was the factor that a Knight (or in this case Emrys) was walking into a room with less than ample preparation. While Harry was fond of his dual Tokarevs that he kept in his shoulder holsters, there was going to be a pat-down for Emrys. Security that experienced would leave nothing to chance, and a gun on Callum’s person would leave his quarry alert and Callum very much dead.

It was unorthodox, but Harry decided that it was best to outfit Callum as a Kingsman, as best he could. While Callum would not fit Harry’s bespoke, being wider in the chest, narrower in the shoulders—not that Harry had been looking—it would behoove him to have the tools that Harry did at his disposal. He had no doubt that Callum might be able to fit a pair of Harry’s oxfords, the Bremont would be helpful…as would the signet ring.

The current Merlin had wasted no time in outfitting his Knights with the most modern of equipment. The Bremont was a marvel, a stylish watch concealing a sleeping dart that had the added benefit of clouding the target’s short-term memory. (Harry had to thank Morgana for that last part, she had been helping produce the various potions that kept a Knight going for longer than he’d been inducted, and this was a particular specialty of hers.) It would be a poor replacement for an actual gun, but it could be far worse.

Emrys was skilled in close-quarters suppression; Harry remembered that he’d been top of his selection in hand-to-hand and stealth. The shoe blade would help him get away, should he need it. He wouldn’t be able to wear the armored plates that Harry sported, because—

Harry shoved his mind away from that portion of the mission, focusing on the particulars.

The signet ring was a short term taser. It contained enough charge to incapacitate a grown man, but only in a short burst with a need to either swap it or recharge it back at Central or a Knight’s mobile base. If Harry included a lighter, Emrys would have a small explosive device, but they were still unreliable in the field—their toggle switches were sticky, and could prematurely detonate. He would leave the choice for that up to Emrys.

He could smell the clean scent of soap that wafted from the bathroom in a cloud of steam when Callum emerged, toweling his hair. He wore his pajama bottoms and a soft tee, barefoot as he placed his discarded clothing in the bag he was using for his laundry. He draped the towel around his shoulders, turning to look at Harry, and he realized the tech was registering the way he stared.

Harry swallowed and broke his glance away. “Are you ready for tonight?”

“As much as I’ll ever be,” Callum said. “I’m sorry, if I made you angry by proceeding. It was your mission, and I had no right to act out of turn.”

“There’s nothing to be done for it now,” Harry said, shaking his head. “What’s important now is that we prepare you for what’s to come. Honey pots are hardly easy, and with so little time to prepare—”

“—we’ll need a map of the club,” Callum replied. He swallowed and moved back into the bathroom, only to return without his towel. He sat at the table that held his suitcase computer. “I took the liberty of transmitting the address to Central while I was out. They’ll have the floor plans for us soon.”

“Er, well, good,” Harry said. He sat up, tucking a leg beneath him as Emrys worked. “Callum—”

“Emrys,” Callum replied absently. “I think it’s best that we maintain that equidistance in our relationship, don’t you, Galahad?”

Harry grunted in frustration. He tunneled a hand through his hair, heedless of how wild it made his curls. He looked back over, to find Callum watching him, and he flushed though he refused to apologize for his non-verbal response.

“As you wish,” he said instead, his jaw set in a stubborn line. Callum sighed softly and closed the suitcase.

“What’s got you in knots, Galahad?”

“I’m just worried.” Harry leaned back against the headboard. “There are so many ways a honey pot can go wrong regularly, but with so little time to plan, and with it being you—”

“—you’re unsure that I can handle things.” Callum finished for him. “I assure you, Galahad, I’m well versed in what a honey pot means.”

“You keep doing that,” Harry said, nettled. “Why?”

“Doing what?” Callum asked, reopening the suitcase and hitting a few more keys on the computer. A small ream of paper began to feed from the side, quiet despite being the most modern dot-matrix that Kingsman could acquire. Harry scooted closer to the foot of the bed, his arms folded. There was something about arguing with Callum that made him want to get up to pace, and so he acknowledged it by moving as much as his pride would allow him.

“Finishing my sentences,” Harry said. “You assume that you know what I’m thinking and immediately jump to conclusions. The wrong conclusions. I’m not worried that you can’t handle yourself. I’m worried that you’ll find yourself overwhelmed because you’re going in there blind with no foreknowledge of what you’re up against. Even I wouldn’t attempt this without reconnaissance.”

“Next time I’ll ask for a week’s preparation when he’s got his hands down my trousers,” Callum snarked, and Harry bit his tongue, hard. Callum’s face softened at Harry’s expression, and he gentled his tone. “You cannot prepare for everything, but I’m going in as prepared as I can. I’m going to study the layout, I’m confident that I won’t need combat unless things go horribly wrong. Besides, I have the organization’s best Knight looking after me, what more can I ask for?”

“Don’t let Lancelot hear you say that,” Harry mumbled.

“Yes, I’m sure he already knows he’s the best we have on offer,” Callum said with a smile. Harry sputtered, but the twinkle of mischief in Callum’s eyes clued him in to his teasing. Warmth bloomed in Harry’s chest, rolling a flush up the back of his neck. “Galahad. I’m going to be all right. I promise.”

“I’m going to see that you are,” Harry said. Still, with the reassurance, he felt marginally better.

Callum checked the printouts. Satisfied they had everything they could glean about the place from Central, he stacked them neatly in the suitcase, closing it down and shutting the computer off. As he passed by the bed, Harry’s hand snaked out and closed around his wrist.

For a long moment, they looked at each other, surprised—Harry even more than Callum that he’d done it. He let his thumb trace the pulse that beat in Callum’s wrist, watching the other man inhale as he did.

“Galahad—” Callum began.

“—Emrys,” Harry finished.

Callum looked away, unwilling to let him get any closer than that. Harry could deal with close, with acknowledging what they had between them and moving on. It was this…refusal to see the potential at all that was doing him in.

“Do you trust me?” he murmured instead. Callum began to nod before the sentence was out of Harry’s mouth, the tech returning his look. “Then trust me when I say that I worry because I care, not because I am worried for the success of the mission.”

“I know what the mission means, though,” Callum said. His voice was hoarse. “And that’s what needs to be our focus. Until this is over—”

He didn’t finish, and Harry didn’t dare give voice to what he wanted. Thomas’s words rang in his head, heavy with censure.

_Kingsman do not marry, nor do they foster relationships. Anything you had would be broken, because your loyalty, first and foremost, is to your duty. As his should be. You know that._

Regret was not a word that Harry was used to having in his vocabulary. And it wasn’t a word that he wanted to apply to the young man in front of him. He’d never wanted something more, and had never been denied by everyone around him. It was not a feeling he’d ever become used to, he thought.

Callum represented something that could be made lasting, if he could just figure out a way to make it so. Like a child working with building blocks, he struggled to make a structure that was impervious to time, to judgment, to grasp and hold close when everything else in his world made no sense.

He didn’t want Callum to be his like a possession; all he wanted was the chance to try. To be able to court the man who’s hand trembled in his own like he was holding back from touching Harry. To act on the husky voice that had already admitted that he wanted to kiss Harry. To feel his name sighed out against his mouth.

He just wanted to _try_. Was that so wrong?

“When this is over,” Harry began, swallowing hard. “I—"

“I think—” Callum said, tugging at his hand. Harry released his hold reluctantly, his fingers sliding over Callum’s as he moved away, sitting on the edge of the camp bed. “We should get some rest for tonight. We’ll need to be up early to prepare.”

Harry moved back to his spot by the headboard, marking his place in his book and setting it on his nightstand. He watched Callum settle down for bed, his heart beating in his throat.

“Good night,” Harry mumbled, reaching out and turning off the light on the bedside table.

“Good night, Harry,” Callum said in the darkness.

It was a long time before Harry slept.

* * *

Callum woke in darkness, the setting sun painting the edges of the drawn curtains a lurid red as the sun set. He could hear Harry’s quiet breathing across the room, and he lay there for a long moment, just listening. He was tired, but not overly so, even having lain awake long after Harry’s breathing evened out into sleep.

He was playing a dangerous game. He didn’t want to encourage Harry; that was folly of the highest order. Callum knew that the consequences for Harry would be minimal compared to his own, and so he did his best to distance himself.

The problem was that Harry had made this even harder by admitting that he wanted something more than just a dalliance. His conversation with Thomas had caused Callum to reexamine everything Harry said with a new lens. He had almost given in when Harry had grabbed his wrist, had almost told him everything. For a man like Harry Hart…it might just be worth the consequences.

He remembered the feel of their fingers sliding against each other, and he swallowed hard in the darkness, squeezing his eyes shut again. When his thoughts proved to be too much, he rose. He stepped to the bathroom in the cool dark, closing the door before he turned on the light, squinting at himself in the mirror.

He washed his face, cleaned his teeth, and saw to everything he could before necessity would make him turn on the light in the living room. When he emerged, Harry was still asleep, and Callum padded over to the bed.

Galahad was not Galahad. Here, in the dark, he was just Harry Hart. He was sprawled on one corner of the bed, leaving the rest of it open—and Callum didn’t think about what that invitation meant, shoving the thought away. He lay on his side, a pillow bunched beneath his cheek as he cradled it in his arms.

The sliver of light from the bathroom washed over the bed, framing just a segment of Harry’s face. His eyes were closed, long lashes fanned against his cheeks, his mouth open as he snuffled softly in his sleep. Lips that often had been pressed in a grim line while on this mission were soft and pliant, and Callum gently rested a hand against Harry’s cheek.

The other man didn’t waken, which meant that he felt comfortable enough to let his guard down. Instead, Harry shifted into Callum’s touch, pressing against him like a sleeping cat. Callum let his thumb frame the high cheekbone, cradling Harry’s face for just a moment. He didn’t let himself settle on the edge of the bed, standing there in his pyjamas like a moon-struck fool. He traced Harry’s features with his eyes, committing this part of Harry Hart to memory – the part that no one else got to see.

Instead of lingering longer, he slipped away to turn on the kitchen light and make the tea. He was satisfied. He’d gotten something that would keep him going long after he and Harry parted ways on this mission, and that was enough. It would carry him through tonight.

Toast was done and the tea was steeping by the time Harry stirred. Callum looked up to find him shuffling to the bathroom, yawning. His smile was minute as he poured the mugs, fixing Harry’s as he knew the Knight liked it. One spoonful of sugar, and just enough milk to lighten the brew. He handed the mug to Harry as he passed him on the way out of the bathroom, moving to lay out the schematics he’d printed earlier.

He'd taped them together before he had put them away in the morning, and now he lay out the floorplans for the club so Harry could peruse them while he dressed. He took his nicest outfit with him. While tailored, it wasn’t the same as a Kingsman’s bespoke. His would not stop a .38, nor would it resist a stab in the dark.

It did, however, look quite sharp, and he saved it for formal functions. A dark grey, it featured broad lapels that drew attention to his chest, slimming his waist and hips with the waistcoat. A plain white dress shirt was accented with a dark green tie that set off the flecks of gold in his eyes, or so Morgana had told him when she’d gifted it to him on his birthday.

Callum had made modifications, of course. The tie would function nicely as a garotte, should he need it, and he had wire and a lockpick concealed in the fabric. Just one, an almost all purpose that would get him out of most padlocks and handcuffs.

He combed his hair, styling it back with a little pomade of his own, making it tidy. He adjusted his clothing, making sure it all sat right before he emerged. He even went so far as to dab a little of the horribly expensive cologne he’d splurged on way back when but hadn’t gotten to wear against his throat.

He stopped, hazel eyes meeting brown as he closed the bathroom door behind him. Harry was staring. It wasn’t just a normal look, though. Callum felt more like prey, waiting to be devoured as he moved closer to the table. Harry’s eyes roved over him like possessive fingers, and he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

“Looking good, Emrys,” Harry murmured, his voice damn near a purr as he leaned his hip against the table.

“Feeling good, Galahad,” Callum replied, swallowing hard. “Have you any tips?”

“None for polite company,” Harry said. He moved to his suitcase and selected a watch, bringing it back and holding it out to him. “But take this. The Bremont will serve you well in a pinch. You know how it works?”

“I designed the firing pin, I should hope I know how it works,” Callum said, his voice a little tight as he took the watch from Harry’s fingers. Harry just chuckled. He swallowed back his irritation. “…I’ll bring it back in one piece. Thank you.”

“My oxfords might serve you better,” Harry said, ignoring the promise for sizing up Callum’s ensemble. “The blade, at least.”

“Taken care of,” Callum said. He clicked his heels together, and the blade popped from the toe of his left sole. “Coated with Morgana’s new recipe.”

He clicked it back into place by pressing the toe of his shoe down against the floor.

“Good man,” Harry remarked. He fished out another box, opening it and removing one of the small golden rings. “But I’d prefer you were armed with everything you could get.”

“You’ll spoil me,” Callum said. He’d tested the signet rings in the shop, but had never worn one openly outside of the range – it was a mark of status he didn’t own. As he made to take the ring from Harry, the Knight held it out of reach.

“Which hand is dominant?” Harry asked.

“My right,” Callum said, frowning. His frown only deepened when Harry took his right hand, sliding the signet ring onto his pinkie with all the same care and attention a man presenting an engagement ring to his betrothed would take. He swallowed hard, not meeting the laughing brown eyes as Harry released his hand a second too long.

“You won’t be able to go armed,” Harry warned.

“I won’t need to,” Callum said. “I’m taking the Rainmaker.”

“You haven’t even tested it,” Harry protested.

“What better time than now?” Callum said. “Live a little, Galahad.”

Harry frowned. “A last resort.”

“Of course,” Callum said.

Harry bit his lip, then nodded.

“Lancelot should be here shortly,” Callum said, reminding them both that there was business to attend to. “We should go over the specifics.”

“Right as always,” Harry said. He stepped back, and Callum inhaled, moving away and going to lean over the map. He couldn’t afford to get distracted now.

It was almost time, and this could be their one and only shot to get close enough to this man to grab him. Kingsman was counting on him. His superiors were counting on him.

Harry was counting on him.

He intended to deliver.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is so short, and it doesn't seem to do much but set up more of the Honey Pot for later. But I wanted to make the Honey Pot its own chapter, so I cut it from this one and am working on finishing it as we speak. Thank goodness I am off tomorrow, I can get some work done. :)
> 
> Merlin's suit is based on [this design](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/fa/03/41/fa034147be19e47a320deed6046d32e8.jpg), save for the tie.
> 
> I hope that you're enjoying, Constant Readers, and thank you for your patience!


	8. Chessmaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>       
>     
>      Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
>     But bears it out ev’n to the edge of doom.
>     
>     
>     

Lancelot sent them on their way close to nine. He was already off and ghosting down the street, moving away on a circuitous route that would take him to the club without being connected to Emrys and Galahad.

Harry was dressed down, as much as he could be. While Kingsman had tactical gear like any other paramilitary organization, their emphasis had always been on hiding in plain sight. Harry’s bespoke was toned down, a muted navy pinstripe to complement Emrys’s dark grey. He wouldn’t stand out, not in the darkness.

Galahad’s role now was support, not to be seen. He would take his place outside the club, in a back alleyway, and listen. Should their plan go awry, there would be a need for someone close by. Lancelot would prowl the paths back, looking for suspicious tails or hangers-on.

It was a hasty plan, but they had done more with less. Emrys adjusted his suit, swallowing as Galahad stopped at the front door. He would leave first, and Emrys would give him a fifteen-minute head start. Emrys was pocketing the bugs he needed to plant, going over his plans in his head; he looked up when he felt eyes on him. Harry was hesitating, as though he wished to say something. His hand rested on the doorknob and he didn’t move, as though rooted to the spot.

“You needed something, Galahad?” Emrys asked.

“Not as such,” Galahad replied. “I just…wanted to wish you luck, I suppose.”

“Who needs luck?” Emrys blurted before he could stop himself. “I’ve got you looking out for me, after all.”

There was no sly tone to the pleased smile that spread across Harry’s face as he nodded in acknowledgement. “We’ll meet at the fountain after, as agreed. If I’m not there in twenty minutes, don’t dawdle. Head for the other meeting spot by the shore, and Lancelot will rendezvous with you.”

Emrys nodded. Galahad spared him one last look, then slipped out the door. Callum forced himself to calm his jangling nerves. Harry had his back. Things would be all right. He’d trained for this. He could handle himself.

He worked the rest of the small listening bugs into the hidden portions of his pockets. Tailored so that they would be missed in casual pat-downs, it meant that he would need at least a handspan of minutes alone before he could call the bugs well and truly set, from retrieval to installation. He was confident he could get that time, but he would need to play things by ear.

For now, he just needed to get in, get out, and go on with his life. He could handle this, it’s what he originally had signed on for as Gawain. He didn’t know if he was trying to reassure himself or console himself at this point.

Glancing at the clock, he realized it was about time to go. He closed up the briefcase, locked it, and put it away. All the schematics and printouts had been carefully burned and the ashes flushed. Now, all that was left was to put down the dust.

Specially formulated to be invisible in sunlight and dim lighting, such as that from a lamp, the dust would pick up footprints and track them across the apartment, only to be revealed under the beam of the UV handlamp that Merlin had developed. Callum sprinkled it in the way one would seed a field, making sure the front door and the sliding glass door to the patio were covered. Housekeeping would vacuum it away long before anyone realized it was there once they were gone.

Locking up, he put a piece of clear tape against the frame of the door as well. If he came back and the seal was broken, he’d know to look for intrusion elsewhere. Now, however, he needed to get going.

Callum set off down the street, aiming for casual with his hands in his pocket and humming a jaunty tune. It was a little toneless, but it would be fine. Besides, no one would really take notice of him here. The square was full of tourists looking to sample what Barcelona’s night life had to offer, and he was just another of those tourists.

He hailed a cab about halfway there, wanting to arrive at least semi-decent looking. Sweating from the walk wouldn’t do much for his second impression; it would make him look nervous. Weak. He inhaled as he sat down in the cab, passing a bill to the driver and instructing him on where he needed to be.

The ride took next to no time with the lateness of the hour, and Callum spent the ride psyching himself up for his encounter. Lancelot had no ear piece, preferring to work without them on the peripheral, but at the same time, even Harry’s voice in his ear was hardly a comfort here. There was a nervous energy about him that wasn’t just nerves on the mission.

He would much rather be doing this another way, somehow, some way. But he’d waltzed into it without thinking and now here he was—he’d made his proverbial bed and now he’d have to lie in it, as it were.

He gave a soft snort as the cab pulled up in front of the club. No sense getting cold feet now. Best to just grin and bear it. Somehow he’d be able to look Harry in the eyes in the morning. It was for the good of the mission, surely Galahad would understand that.

As if on cue, he heard the faint crackle of static as Harry’s ear piece came into range. He must have walked, taking side streets to avoid being seen. It made him put steel in his spine, adjusting his cuffs before he turned to take in the club.

This one was a more traditional establishment, at least on the outside. From the schematics, the two story building had a basement that was used as the bar, the ground floor was a dance hall that also happened to serve drinks, and the top floor was for managerial staff and administration. He would go and get a drink on the ground floor, and hope that Christian would invite him up.

If he didn’t, he could cut the date short and claim nausea from the heat, or any number of reasons. He could always abort the mission. That was always an option.

“All right, Emrys?” came Harry’s voice, smooth and calm as a good single-malt scotch. Callum breathed out, relaxing.

“Peachy, Galahad,” he murmured, not moving his lips. “Where are you?”

“Alley across the street. I just saw you get out of the cab. I’ll try and make my way to the building’s fire escape and meet you upstairs when you move that way,” Harry murmured. “Steady on, Emrys. I’ll be right here.”

Callum took a cleansing breath. “Aye. I’m heading in.”

* * *

The club was popular, it seemed. Couples alternated gyrating on the dance floor with heading downstairs to where the darkened bar offered private booths. Solid brick walls retained a lot of the heat of the day, and the coolness of the air outside was dissipated by the crush of bodies.

It actually took Christian a while to make his way downstairs. Emrys was wondering if this was a power play, sipping on his beer as he waited, cooling his heels by the bar. Then again, plans might have changed. The bouncers all looked to be in Christian’s pockets, and all of them looked tenser than they should be, eyes that were far too sharp for the club scene sweeping across the crowd.

The dance hall itself was fairly crowded, though they were all oblivious to the various tattoos on the bouncer’s arms and hands. Emrys catalogued what he could while he waited, recognizing several prominent Russian prison tattoos. Spetsnaz at best, he thought. He gave Harry a verbal headcount, noting patrol patterns and watch positions.

Had something changed? Emrys had to wonder. Maybe their buyer was getting impatient. After all, nuclear warheads were a hot commodity at this moment. If someone was delivering rogue warheads, not only would the US want to know about it, but perhaps they had fingers in the pot. The wait was making him just a little paranoid, but he was outwardly collected, long fingers wrapped around his pint glass as he relaxed against the bar.

“He’s keeping you waiting,” Galahad huffed quietly. “What a gracious host.”

“I was thinking the same,” Emrys replied.

“Do the guard look bothered?”

“Not as such. They seem more alert, like they’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“I’ll need caution going up the fire escape, then. Don’t want any nasty surprises at the top.”

Emrys pushed that sliver of fear that Harry would be discovered outside out of his mind. Harry couldn’t exactly come in; Christian had noticed him before, and with a man like Harry Hart, he’d be noticed again. There was nothing to be done for it. If he were found, they’d have to play it by ear. Emrys had full confidence that Galahad could dispatch a few roof guards.

When his target appeared, Emrys raised his brows and shot Christian a sheepish smile. The German man descended the stairs, dressed down; he’d forgone a full suit for just a waistcoat and dress shirt with trousers in a light blue, but it didn’t stop his eyes from roving over Emrys’s suit. Whereas with Harry’s gaze, Callum had felt that tingle of anticipation, Christian just left Emrys feeling vaguely out of place, as though he were watching the scene from outside his own body.

“You made it,” Christian murmured, grasping Callum’s hand and grinning at him. “Sorry I’m fashionably late. You didn’t wait long?”

Callum held up the lager he’d been nursing. “Not long.”

Even here, they had to be careful. There was still censure about this sort of thing, considered something best done behind closed doors. Callum tilted his head, offering what he hoped was a flirty smile.

“Buy you a drink?” he asked, and Christian laughed.

“I like you,” he commented. “All the drinks here are mine. You don’t pay for refreshments here. Come, let’s go where it’s quieter.”

He snapped his fingers at the bouncers by the stairwell, and they nodded at Callum. They knew his face now. If he were to come back when invited, they’d escort him up the stairs. He trailed Christian up the stairs, carrying his partially drunk pint up with him.

Upstairs was much the same, the red brick a feature rather than something to cover with a classier façade. Pipe metal catwalks made of galvanized steel painted a matte black made the whole space save the offices open and airy; the dance floor below would seem almost oppressive had they kept the second floor a full floor instead of the modified loft that was present now. The group favored rich woods to complement it and Emrys had a vague thought that he might have chosen to drink here, given a chance to choose the establishment for leisure time. It was almost close enough to Kingsman aesthetics to feel like home, at least in the décor.

“Front office,” he murmured to Harry. Galahad would be following along outside, up the fire escape and onto the roof. He might not be able to see, but he would be close enough to hear, and that was what mattered.

Christian unlocked the office at the front, leading him inside. The windows were a one-way mirror, allowing him to see everything on the dance floor without cluing in anyone downstairs that he was watching. Emrys set his glass down on a table, making sure a coaster was underneath it.

The office was patterned in the same rich woods and red brick, with tasteful art and a couple of bookcases worth of books. Each looked like they’d been read a great deal, unlike someone who bought a book for what it represented about them. Christian seemed to genuinely enjoy reading. There was a reading nook, in fact, tucked in a corner with a gooseneck lamp standing behind a comfortable looking chair and ottoman.

The surprisingly cozy space included a couch; Emrys reckoned it to be a foldaway bed, judging by the blocky shape and the way it stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the richer decoration of the room. The desk sported two visitor’s chairs in a comfortable leather, the swivel chair behind the desk matched. Emrys couldn’t say he disagreed with Christian’s taste in decoration.

Funny how ideals set them on opposite sides of the lines, then.

“I’ll be honest with you,” Christian said, and Emrys felt a sliver of fear in his stomach. He could hear the anticipatory silence on Galahad’s side of the line, as though the Knight were holding his breath. “I didn’t expect you to come.”

“Oh?” Emrys fished, looking about the office as he spoke. He affected a casual stance, hands in his pockets, neutral shoulders, nothing threatening about himself at all. “What gave you that idea?”

“While you were enthusiastic, you were…far away. I am not sure I can explain it accurately in English.” Christian shrugged and tapped his temple. “Up here, it was like you were thinking of someone else. Should I be jealous?”

“I had been thinking of him,” Emrys said, returning his gaze to Christian. “You made me forget, for a time. Isn’t that enough? We get so little…time. I have to return home soon, once my holiday is up. You have a club to run. Shouldn’t we both just focus on relaxing?”

Christian smiled. He was classically handsome, in a way that might have attracted Callum, if he didn’t know what he was. It made things easier as his target closed the distance, settling his hands on Callum’s hips.

“Who is he, to you?” Christian murmured.

“Someone who would never touch me,” Emrys lied, thinking of all the smallest, briefest moments, the brushes of skin on skin, the warmth of Harry’s hands right as he’d slid the signet ring on Emrys’s finger. “He was born too rich, and I wasn’t. Doesn’t think beyond the now, what he wants right now. That’s the long and short of it. He’d never see me in the way I see him.”

“You love him,” Christian purred. He was a hairsbreadth away, and Emrys could feel the puff of warm air as Christian bent his head, coming closer. The assessment wasn’t wrong, and when he didn’t deny it, Christian reached up and stroked his face, fingers tracing his jaw. His dark green eyes were filled with…pity. Pity and the knowledge that he had an opportunity.

Emrys let him think that, putting on a sorrowful look. Just another boy from Oxford, fighting strange feelings he couldn’t name. His lager was forgotten, save for the taste of it on his lips when he used his tongue to wet them.

“Can I help you forget him again?” Christian’s fingers moved to his hair, and Callum swallowed.

It was now or never.

“Let’s find out,” Emrys replied, letting Christian close the gap. Bile churned in his stomach as the German pressed his lips to Callum’s. It wasn’t a bad kiss, not at all, it just…

It wasn’t Harry.

He was hopelessly gone on the Knight out on the fire escape, and he knew it, his mouth opening at Christian’s invitation only when he thought of Harry. He forced his hands from his pockets, imagining the crisp linen of Harry’s bespoke rather than the target in front of him, running his hands along the German’s back. Christian was insistent, taking the lead, and he nipped at Emrys’s lower lip before his hand slid from Callum’s waist to his arse.

Callum inhaled, knowing he needed to be convincing, and he was pliant where he needed to be, letting Christian take his fill. He could almost hear the judgment in his ear, but he pushed the thought away, letting his hands roam where he needed them to roam, almost as though he was on auto-pilot.

The jangle of the phone on the desk made them both startle, and Christian swore roundly in his native tongue. He kissed Callum once more, softer in apology, and broke away, moving for the desk.

“I have to take this, excuse me,” he muttered, flushed and angry at the interruption. He picked up the receiver. “ _What? I’m busy._ ”

The swap to German made Emrys perk up, even as he affected a little bit of a disappointed air that they’d been interrupted. In reality, he was glad he was able to break away. He moved to the couch, sitting and running a hand through his hair.

Christian’s eyes snapped to Emrys, as though remembering their first meeting. “ _I can’t have this conversation here. Hold on.”_

He placed the call on hold, setting the receiver in the cradle and moving to the couch. He pressed a reverent kiss to Emrys’s forehead, and cupped his face.

“Business call,” he explained apologetically. “Enjoy your drink, and I’ll try not to take too long. I’ll be right back.”

Emrys nodded, pouting appropriately, and Christian kissed him soundly before moving for the door. When the door clicked shut behind him, Callum blew out a heavy sigh.

“I shouldn’t have let him know I spoke German,” he mumbled, fishing in his pockets for the first of the bugs. The previous week had been him setting up relays in the city while he helped Thomas coordinate his movements so that he could intercept calls from the apartment should he need them. Now it was just a matter of placing the bugs. Any calls or conversations intercepted would be recorded for him to peruse, and he could glean whatever he needed now.

“Sometimes it’s best to let a target think you ignorant,” Harry agreed idly in his ear. Callum jumped, having quite forgotten Galahad was there while he was taking the heavy bottom off the desk phone. He nearly dropped the whole thing, but he saved it, setting the case to the side so he could attach the bug.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Callum muttered. “All clear?”

“For now,” Harry said, his bored tone making Callum worry more than anything else had. “He’s in the back office. I can see a light on.”

Callum nodded before remembering that Harry couldn’t see him. “Thanks.”

“It’s going to be all right,” Harry promised. “Do you want me to shut off my receiver?”

“…no,” Callum said. “We can’t lose contact, as much as I hate to say that.”

“Agreed,” Harry murmured, though he didn’t elaborate as to what he was in agreement with. Callum got the phone back together, placed on the desk exactly how it had been before, bug in place. He slid another bug in a gap in the wood molding of the minibar, and yet another hidden in the shadows of the bookcase, behind it as the books were thumbed through and it would be noticed if it were there.

He finished just as Harry murmured a warning that Christian was returning. It had taken a span of minutes, but his adrenaline made it feel like it had lasted hours. He was taking a sip from his lager, casually seated once again, when Christian returned.

“My apologies, Hamish,” Christian said. He looked agitated, running a hand through his hair and sighing. “I must cut this short. There are things that need my attention elsewhere, and I am needed, because my employees are dunces who need constant supervision.”

“Ah,” Emrys said, trying not to let his relief and curiosity win out over false disappointment. What had changed? Were the sale dates moving? “I’m sorry to hear that. Another time, perhaps?”

“How long are you here?” Christian asked, hope lighting his features and washing away the irritation.

“Another two weeks, at least,” Emrys said. “His father paid for us to come out here, so I’m here until the money runs out.”

“A smart way to play things,” Christian chuckled. “Take what you can.”

Emrys let a wry smile play across his lips. “Then back to Oxford.”

“Perhaps,” Christian said. “Maybe you’ll decide to stay.”

“Maybe,” Emrys replied, finishing his lager and standing. He took the glass with him, but paused to press a chaste kiss to Christian’s cheek. “Can I reach you here?”

“Any time, just ask for me and tell them it’s you, they’ll put you through.” Christian lingered, as though he wanted to resume regardless of other pressing matters, but Emrys stepped back, smile in place.

“I’ll call you then, in a couple of days. We’ll have dinner.”

“I’d like that,” Christian said. “Can I call you a cab?”

“It’s such a nice night,” Emrys said. “Think I’ll walk.”

He let his fingers drag across Christian’s, then moved away, out of the office. Callum let the door swing shut behind him. He dropped off his glass, attempted to pay his tab (only to find that Christian was telling the truth about him drinking for free here), and headed out the door. He waited until he was out of ear shot of the bouncers before he murmured that he was heading to the rendezvous point.

“Ta, Emrys, good work.” Harry’s voice was faint as he moved out of range. “See you soon.”

* * *

Galahad was late.

If this were a social setting or a debrief, it would be a point of mild irritation for Emrys. As it was, leaning against a fountain and pretending to smoke his second cigarette in fifteen minutes, it was a source of growing unease. He’d bought some food from a street vendor, and had managed to get down half of the pulled pork sandwich before he had to set it aside due to his own nervousness. He could barely taste it anyway. Yes, there was the secondary rendezvous point on the shoreline, but Lancelot had no communicator and if they’d been made, splitting up would be their best option.

Callum ground out his cigarette butt and pocketed it, dumping it with the first one in a disposal area along with his food as he headed for the shoreline. He had a feeling things had gone pear-shaped in the worst way, and the thought didn’t help his casual stride as he made his way down the streets. He had nowhere to be, and he acted like it, hands in his pockets as he strolled.

‘Across town’ had been a generalization, as Barcelona was much larger than the average tourist anticipated. Callum had carefully mapped their rendezvous points, enabling them to get there, then back to the apartment with little fuss. They were within walking distance of each other, though Christian’s club was technically in another district and easier to reach by cab. It was still a hike, however.

Where was Harry?

The question gnawed at him as he walked. Getting a cab now would just waste time, as Lancelot would need a larger window of arrival. Instead, Callum was left to stew with his thoughts. He didn’t think Galahad would be so petty as to forsake him in the middle of a mission for saying things he had to in order to get closer to his target – things that Galahad would have said without blinking if he’d been in the same position.

His stomach churned, the food roiling in the pit of nervousness that had once been his stomach. This had, in the space of heartbeats, gone to shit, and Emrys was going to get the short end of it, he felt. He could smell the sea air, and he moved through the alleyway toward the scent, knowing that he was early. It was better to play the English tourist, besotted with the sea, than the lurking ne’er-do-well in the alleyway—he could explain the former, but not the latter.

“Emrys, you’re being tailed.” Harry’s murmur in his ear made him shiver. Calm, collected, his heartbeat ratcheted down a notch as Harry’s voice echoed through his receiver. He hadn’t noticed the usual static as Harry had come into range, which meant he hadn’t been paying attention like he should have. Stupid of him. “Follow me.”

Grateful for the watchful eyes on him (and the explanation for Harry’s no-show at the fountain), Emrys moved according to instructions. Harry must be moving either parallel or tailing Emrys himself, the tech couldn’t be sure, but he walked, making a circuit along the shore and then back, heading up a narrow side street.

“Two men, both of them from the club. I spotted them as I was heading down the ladder,” Harry murmured. “We need foot traffic to throw them off, so to the square with us.”

He walked for what felt like an hour, the knowledge that someone was out to hurt him skewing his perception of time. Emrys strolled, though there was some urgency in the movements as he made his way back to the nightlife center that surrounded their hotel.

“Down the side street to your left,” Harry murmured. “The club is about to announce last call, and you can lose yourself in the crowd.”

Callum obeyed, trusting in Harry’s guidance, hands in his pockets as though he were just out to enjoy the night life. He shifted himself toward the club’s entrance, and as the doors opened to let people out into the night air, the noise level rose. Chattering and laughing, locals and tourists alike spilled out into the narrow space, and Callum moved down the alley, hoping to put distance between himself and his tail.

Hands reached out and pulled him into a dark alcove and Emrys bit his tongue to keep from crying out as Harry’s cologne and the hand over his mouth revealed that Galahad had been looking out for him. He put a finger to his lips and Emrys nodded, making Harry release him. His gaze returned to the crowd, and Callum had a chance to study him up close.

While tense, Harry was alert, long legs and broad shoulders keeping Emrys hidden from view. He seemed to spot who he was looking for, because he pressed Emrys deeper into the alcove, so close that the slide of Harry against him became suddenly the only thing that Callum could feel. His jaw jumped as Harry’s profile became nothing but shadows as he brought his face closer.

“You know, Emrys,” Galahad murmured, his voice as smooth as silk, “You should have something tangible to forget the next time you decide to take on a honeypot. That way you’re not lying when you say you can’t forget.”

“What?” Emrys said, his voice a hiss in the darkness.

He pushed against Harry’s chest, but Harry was made of stone, unmovable as the henges as their breath mingled. Time dilated further, the moment stretching out as if they were drenched in amber, the ghost of Harry’s fingers on the back of his neck both a comfort and sweet torture.

“I mean, forget _this_ ,” Harry said, and turned Emrys fully into the dark.

Callum’s breath left him completely as Harry crashed his lips against his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I'm not sorry.
> 
> For the record, I can already hear Bearfeathers yelling at me.
> 
> Still not sorry.
> 
> More Bon Dia soon, Constant Readers. Thank you for your patience!


	9. Conflagration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Something in me wants more. I can’t rest. — Sylvia Plath_

Something primal in Harry’s chest loosened as he felt Callum go pliant beneath him. This was what he’d wanted, cupping the other’s jaw and delving into his mouth as the tech groaned softly. The heady rush of blood in his ears masked the outside; someone could have crept up on them and he’d have never noticed.

He was praying for the privacy of the alleyway as he ran a hand through the short hair at the back of Callum’s neck. The tech gave as good as he got, momentary surprise turning into a sudden tangling of their tongues as Emrys surged against him, flipping them and pressing Harry against the wall. Control had always been Harry’s bread and butter, but with Callum’s broad chest pressing against him and a hand in his hair, Harry was lost.

It was exactly what he’d needed, his legs going watery as Callum pulled back to let them both breathe, only to tilt Harry’s head up with one of his fantastically beautiful hands. He kept a grip on Harry’s jaw, exposing his neck, and sucked a welt over Harry’s pulse, making it triple as Harry whined. Low breathy laughter sounded in his ear, and Callum nuzzled at the lobe. The barest press of teeth, and Callum tugged.

Harry was as hard as a rock and he had lost all control of the situation. Not normally how his dalliances went, but he was hardly arguing as Callum let his hand rove over the swell of Harry’s arse, squeezing and making Harry groan as loudly as he dared. The hesitant Callum Craig was gone, and the potential of this man above him made his mind go blank with need. He’d meant for the kiss to only convey that he needed Callum, but with the script tossed out, Harry followed Callum’s lead, natural as breathing.

“I doubt I’ll forget a man like you, Galahad,” Callum whispered, and the deep and throaty catch to his voice made his brogue even richer, like fine brandy. He was gentler now, pressing an affectionate kiss to his temple, as though he was rewarding Harry for being so very pliant. Harry fair to sobbed, sliding his hands beneath Callum’s suit jacket, only for Callum to pull away. “We’ve got a rendezvous, however, and we mustn’t dawdle.”

“I can’t believe you can think of anything after that,” Harry said, feeling both boneless and debauched—though he’d only been barely touched. He could taste spices, something Callum had recently sampled, and they made his lips tingle. “…I can’t _believe_ I didn’t try that the first day.”

He mumbled the last as though an afterthought, not really realizing that he’d said it aloud.

“I might have stabbed you,” Callum said absently, looking around them and adjusting his suit. “Besides, if Lancelot finds us _in flagrante delicto_ , we’ve more issues than the tail. Are they gone?”

“Believe so,” Harry said. “They were heading toward the square before I got…distracted.”

He smoothed his clothing, following along awkwardly as Callum led the way. He got himself in order, knowing that Callum was right about moving along. He’d planned for it to be a small diversion, and then—

Callum Craig had knocked him for a loop. There was no other way to explain it. He trailed behind Emrys, his own sense of awareness coming back as he watched their flank. Swallowing hard, he knew that this wasn’t the time, though adrenaline said that it was the perfect time. They’d both gotten out alive, after all.

They would have to revisit that part later. Now, however, they looped back around to the shoreline, heading for Thomas’s rendezvous marker.

The buzz of euphoria in Harry’s brain took far longer to die down than was absolutely necessary, but now wasn’t the time to be sloppy. He concentrated on the task at hand, flitting through the shadows behind Emrys as he took point, their footsteps quiet in the early hours of the morning. As the rush of waves got closer, they descended down toward the shore to the shadows of the sea wall, a large construct of colorful bricks in a pleasing pattern.

Thomas was waiting for them, the cherry of his lit pipe the only indication he was there as they drew closer. Harry was suddenly thankful for the shadows; the hickey that Callum had surely left with the bite to his neck would be hidden from Lancelot’s sharp eyes.

That was the last thing he needed right now—the disappointment in eyes the color of denim would wilt what little rebellion Harry was nurturing here. He had decided that asking forgiveness was far better than asking permission in Callum’s case, and would continue to do so.

“Were you followed?” Lancelot asked, his voice a quiet rasp in the darkness scented with the cloud of vanilla tobacco he exhaled.

“We were, but we shook the tail in the square,” Callum said, moving deeper into the shadows. Harry joined them, his eyes on the road behind. “We have bugs planted in the main office of the club, and he seems to do business on the phones quite a bit.”

“Good work,” Thomas said. “I want you to be seen at the airport within the next couple of days, buying a ticket. You’ll double back later that night and rejoin us, but make your apologies to him and assure him you’ll write. I don’t care how you spin it, but make sure you stick with it.”

“Sir,” Callum said.

“You’re quiet, Galahad. Something on your mind?” Lancelot said, the words piercing Harry’s concentration. He turned, regarding Thomas’s face hidden in the shadows.

“The tail itself,” Harry murmured. “By all accounts, our mark is besotted with Emrys. Why tail him now?”

“Paranoia,” Callum suggested. “Afraid we’re doing exactly what we are doing.”

“I didn’t hear any of that in his voice,” Harry pressed. “Listening to him, you’d think that he’d worship the pavement you tread on.”

“That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t want to check into my background,” Callum replied. “Thankfully, Merlin set us up with an entire false dossier.”

“Mm,” Harry said. The more he thought on it, though, the less he liked it. “Something still feels off. It seems to me that the guards in his employ are working autonomously, suggesting he doesn’t distribute their pay.”

“We’ll keep a careful watch on our surroundings for the next couple of days,” Lancelot hedged. “I won’t be making visits and will check in by phone. The usual signals.”

“Sir,” Harry said.

“You two are to lay low until then,” Lancelot said. “Save for supplies, you’re to stick to the apartment. No more casing the clubs. We’ve found our man, so be seen at a local spot for a few hours, drink, maybe dance a little, but then return to your rooms.”

“Don’t bring anyone home?” Harry asked, before he could stop himself.

“Galahad, if I thought you could make it believable under the circumstances, I would give my blessing,” Thomas drawled with another puff on his pipe. “For now, just the drink will do.”

Harry reddened, but Callum nudged him quietly in the dark. He bit back the offended retort, realizing that he’d earned the chastising. Instead, he nodded, clearing his throat.

“Understood.” He took a deep breath, centering himself.

“Emrys has the relays set, thank god. This is moving a lot faster than I would like, and it’s abysmal timing,” Lancelot groused. “We’ll need to be alert and monitor the channels as much as possible. You have your recording equipment set up?”

“Sir,” Emrys replied. “I have it set to intercept up to two hours of calls and conversation before the tape must be changed.”

“Good. See to it that you monitor. Coded messages out of the flat only, call for me only in dire straits. I’ve come up dry on my end of the spectrum, so I’ll appear to take my holiday as it’s written, rather than as I’d like to, by cracking this thing open.” Lancelot huffed out an irritated breath, then inhaled. “Telegraph to Central when we need to move. I’ll be there.”

“Yes, sir,” they chorused quietly. Thomas squeezed each on the shoulder before nodding at Emrys.

“You leave first, head west. Galahad next and to the north. I’ll return south. Twenty minute intervals.” Emrys nodded, padding away into the pool of moonlight and then flitting out of view. Thomas turned to Harry, and Harry felt the press of his gaze without seeing it as he turned to look out over the dark ocean waters. “Good work on discerning the tail.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry replied. He pulled out his cigarette case, tapping one out and putting the filter between his lips. The smoking was more for anyone watching than himself, and he hesitated a moment before he lit a coal to the end of it. “You seem to agree with me.”

“The fact that no one has approached me signals that we have more than just weapons to worry about,” Thomas said. There was another exhale of fragrant smoke, and Harry’s own exhale joined it as he leaned back against the sea wall. “If he was just looking to unload his cargo on the highest bidder, he’d have come running. Instead, I’m left high and dry out of the deal and you’ve stumbled upon his lieutenant. It smacks of a set-up.”

It did, and Harry couldn’t help turning his head to where he’d last seen Emrys’s form slip away. Worry cascaded through him, making the cherry on the end of his cigarette bob wildly as he ashed it.

“How do we proceed?” he asked.

“By ear,” Thomas said. “We can’t do anything else at the time. This is a sloppy mess, to be sure, but we’ll clear it up and be home soon enough. Whether it’s a set-up or not and whether we get out of it unscathed is up to you two.”

Harry turned his gaze back out to the water. “What if we can’t stop the sale?”

“We sink the transport over the Atlantic as close to midpoint between the continents as we can. We cannot allow this to escalate further,” Thomas said. “The Americans do enough on their own with their bloody posturing.”

Harry nodded, jaw set, and checked his watch by moonlight. Time to go. He squeezed Thomas’s shoulder and put out his cigarette beneath his heel.

“Be careful, Galahad,” Thomas warned. “Both your lives weigh against many millions more. I’d rather we not lose any of them.”

“I’ll do my best to live up to your expectations,” Harry promised, and slipped off into the night. The scent of Thomas’s tobacco lingered. A reminder.

* * *

Callum had already reset all their wards by the time that Harry arrived back; Harry was reasonably sure that the glowing powder had also been reset. He’d taken his time, mostly to cool his temper and remember his mission. Callum Craig was important, but so was their objective. Approaching things rationally was something that Harry needed no reminder about; he knew full well where his weaknesses were.

Still, they were housebound for more than a week while they waited for some sort of signal to move. Harry didn’t know where that would take them at all. Pleasant as the kiss had been, he had a feeling that there was a conversation about duty first in his future, and he knew that he was going to hate being turned down once again for Kingsman.

He lingered outside for a moment, breathing in the still-cool early morning air. He would need all his faculties about him if he was going to get through this, and remembering Callum’s throaty growl in his ear hadn’t helped much. He inhaled, then knocked in his rapid fire code that would let Callum know it was only him.

When there was no answer, Harry knew Callum was alone, and he entered to find the other man in the apartment’s kitchen, suit coat gone and sleeves rolled to his elbow. Harry swallowed hard as he locked the door and threw the burglar stop, not speaking for a long moment.

Emrys did have really nice forearms, Harry recalled vaguely, trying not to stare in the other’s direction, tousling his own hair and moving for the small bedroom area. This was a conversation he would really rather avoid, but there was nothing for it.

“Harry,” Callum said, and his gaze lifted almost of his own accord, taking in the glass that the other held out to him. When had he crossed the room? Harry should have been more aware, but consumed with his own thoughts, the subject of his musing had gotten away from his perceptions.

Strange how that happened.

“What’s this for?” Harry asked, taking the glass with the amber liquid in it. Good scotch, he could tell already, wafting the drink beneath his nose. Neat, as he took it normally.

“For you to get your courage up again,” Callum said, laughter in his voice.

Harry scowled, taking a long gulp of the smooth liquor. He didn’t deign to answer to Callum’s poke, merely sitting on the edge of the bed and toeing off his shoes. If that was how things were to be, he was going to sleep.

“Oh, don’t scowl so,” Callum said. He was barefoot, and he padded over, settling on the edge of the bed beside Harry. “I wasn’t poking fun at you, per se. It’s just…”

“What I did was…ungentlemanly.” Harry’s voice was stiff, though the bite was gone from his words. He set the glass aside, rubbing thumb against forefinger as he sat back. “My apologies, Emrys.”

“If you ever feel the need to be ungentle that way, Harry, please don’t hesitate on my account,” Callum said softly. “I just…what we have here, it can’t go beyond this room. It can’t interfere in the mission, and it’s certainly something we can’t take back to Kingsman.”

“I expected a talk about how we mustn’t compromise the mission and that for the good of Kingsman we should separate.” Harry admitted.

“Not…not quite,” Callum said, flushing as he looked away. “We’re both smarter than that. Ideally if we split off now, there would be more questions from the mark, and if we were to work through this together without attachment…”

“Are you saying that you’d like a—a dalliance?” Harry asked, incredulous. “An affair that can only last as long as the mission.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Callum said. He bit his lip, chewing on it delicately, and Harry looked away, as appealing as the sight was. “I feel as though that will be the answer to get this out of both of our systems.”

“You figure this to be a temporary attraction,” Harry said.

“I don’t,” Callum said. Harry’s brows rose. “But for both of our sakes, yours especially, it has to be. We are not…”

He trailed off, and Harry looked over to find Callum studying his own hands. There was a serious look on his face, as though he were searching for the correct phrasing and couldn’t quite find it.

“I understand,” Harry said softly. “We are very different.”

“That, and we come from very different backgrounds,” Callum replied softly. “But we can’t keep this up, not if we want to keep our positions. Attachments for a man like yourself are strictly discouraged, if not outright forbidden, and while that’s not the case for me…”

“Arthur would still bring down the hammer on you harder,” Harry finished. Callum blinked, surprised. “I’m hardly unobservant, Callum.”

“Mm,” Callum said, as though he doubted Harry’s observations. “But seeing as we’re both, well, as we’re here, on mission, together…”

Harry nodded, seeing the logic. “You think we would do well to have the fling now, instead of it hampering field work later.”

“In part,” Callum replied.

“In part?” Harry echoed.

“There’s another part to it,” Callum said. “The part that tells me I really would like to kiss you again.”

Harry chuckled. “That’s what you said when you were drunk.”

“I had a feeling,” Callum muttered, running a hand over his face. “I really can’t remember saying it, but you being so kind—”

“That was because I already fancied you,” Harry said. He reached out and placed his hand over Callum’s. “But hearing you talk that way to that…”

He fell silent, anger boiling up at the thought of Christian saying those things to Callum.

“If it helps any, I was thinking of you instead.” Harry looked up, finding Callum watching him. Dark green eyes were unsure now, now that the truth was out between them. “Though I doubt it helps.”

“Oddly, it does.” Harry wet his lips, frowning. “How do we go about this?”

“We play it by ear,” Callum said. “Set ground rules. We take our time here, work things out of our system, and then part ways at Central like nothing is amiss.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I have to be,” Callum said, shrugging. “If it’s acceptable to you, then it’s acceptable to me.”

Harry inhaled. He didn’t know that he would be able to free himself of wanting the man in front of him. While attraction was powerful, there was something far deeper at work here. Callum Craig wasn’t merely interesting, he was fascinating. Could he let go once this mission was behind them?

He didn’t know if he wanted to try.

He hummed, instead. “It’s more than acceptable to me, Callum. Because I would very much like to kiss you again.”

The smile that greeted him when he looked over was like a punch to the solar plexus. Harry knew then that he would give this man anything he wanted, just to see that look directed his way once more. He closed the gap between them, cupping Callum’s lovely jaw and angling his mouth against the tech’s.

It was gentler this time, sweetened by Harry’s need to make this last as long as possible. Callum’s eyes fluttered closed as he opened his mouth, letting Harry taste as long as he needed. They broke when Harry could no longer breathe, Callum looking both rumpled and pleased, his lip pleasantly swollen from Harry’s kiss.

As it should be, Harry thought, swallowing as he moved forward again.

Harry slid his hand down Callum’s neck, tracing the skin that was revealed with the loss of the other’s tie, the open button of his shirt inviting as he feathered his fingertips over it. His hands were shaking, but he ignored it, nuzzling against Callum’s jaw, hip to hip with the tech. He felt a hand slide up his neck and into his hair, and he growled softly, pleased to hear the hitch of breath as Callum heard him.

“Harry,” Callum breathed, and Harry felt the hair along the back of his neck rise as Callum murmured something untranslatable in Gaelic as he pressed his mouth to Callum’s collarbone, nipping and making the throaty voice jump into a moan.

“ _Let me have you,_ ” Harry whispered, breathing the French against Callum’s earlobe as he brought his mouth closer. “ _Take all of me in return._ ”

It was all he had to give, and Harry gifted it gladly. So long as it was Callum who held his heart in his hands, he was safe. There was no going back, not from this. He knew it, like he knew the sun would rise in the morning and bring light to another day. Their door was locked, their blinds were drawn, and in this moment, they were free to be whomever they wanted.

For a spy like Harry Hart, he’d never wanted to be himself more in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My poor besotted boys. It sure is a good thing they get together in the end, isn't it?
> 
> Thank you for your patience, Constant Readers. More _Bon Dia!_ soon. I'm hoping to wrap this up by the end of November, but don't quote me. We'll see how things even out once I have two days off once more.


	10. Melting Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 
>         _Moving forward using all my breath 
>     Making love to you was never second best 
>     I saw the world crashing all around your face 
>     Never really knowing it was always mesh and lace 
>     
>     I'll stop the world and melt with you 
>     You've seen the difference and it's getting better all the time 
>     There's nothing you and I won't do 
>     I'll stop the world and melt with you_
>       

Harry sank into the sensation of Callum’s hands threading through his hair. The hesitation of before was gone, vanished in the night like the smoke from his last cigarette when Harry had decided that he wanted this more than he feared reprisal. Callum seemed to feel the same, pressing closer as he nipped Harry’s lower lip, tugging gently. Harry groaned softly, his breath hitching as Callum loosed the elegant knot of Harry’s tie without breaking contact, clever fingers flicking open the top buttons of his collar.

“Look at you,” Callum breathed as he pulled back, awe and want echoing in equal measure with his words. “So damnably pretty.”

Harry felt debauched, like he was already splayed out and wanting beneath this man. Callum had barely touched him and he could feel the other’s gaze rake over him with a possessive bent that made his heart speed in his chest.

“Not normally how I’ve been described,” Harry said, his voice hoarse as Callum traced a finger down the crisp white linen of his shirt.

“But you are,” Callum said with a smile. “That face, those eyes. That filthy mouth of yours. You know damn well you are.”

Harry flushed, passing a hand across his face as he felt the room heat around them. He was glad for the condensation cooler, suddenly, every stitch of clothing feeling too tight as Callum moved closer with the air of anticipation reserved for an excellent meal.

The fact that Harry was upon the plate wasn’t lost on him, meeting Callum in the middle, standing to make this easier. The tech was his equal, their heights making it easy to press against each other as Harry kissed him.

Callum pushed Harry’s jacket off his shoulders, tossing it carelessly away. There was more noise than usual to it, the weight of the bullet resistant plating he wore making the coat hit the ground with a dull clinking noise, but Harry was too far gone to really find that he cared one way or the other. His waistcoat was open with a few practiced flicks of Callum’s wrist, the broad hands splaying on his sides radiating a heat that was scorching.

“Callum—” Harry’s whine was lost as Callum brought one of those gorgeous hands up to cup him beneath his chin as he had before, urging Harry to tip his head back as Callum mouthed at his now-exposed throat.

“Impatient, aren’t you?” Callum murmured, moving his mouth to Harry’s ear. “Eager for it?”

Harry was fair to vibrating with want, and he had no idea how Callum _wasn’t_. “Just—”

“Hush,” Callum commanded, and Harry quieted as Callum pushed his waistcoat off. His fingers roamed down Harry’s chest, undoing his buttons as he went, following the gap in the snowy linen with his mouth. “We’ve plenty of time.”

Harry reached up, sliding his fingers through Callum’s hair, groaning as the other took his time, tugging his shirttails out of his trousers. He felt Callum tug on his braces and he shrugged out of them, letting them hit his thighs as Callum finally got his shirt all the way off.

While the bespoke had saved his life on a couple of occasions, Harry couldn’t help but curse the damnable thing now because it kept the rush of skin-on-skin contact away for so long. He hissed as the heat of Callum’s hands reached his chest at last, nothing between him and the press of the tech’s palms.

In the haze of everything, he realized that Callum was still almost fully clothed, his waistcoat still buttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow, beautiful forearms flexing as his hands roamed over Harry’s frame. That wouldn’t do, and he reached for his partner, fumbling with the buttons. Callum leaned in, nuzzling at the bunch of the muscle between Harry’s neck and shoulder, and Harry gave a pleased purr at the scratch of Callum’s cheek, the stubble returning after their nearly full night out.

“Like a great bloody cat,” Callum murmured, sliding his hands to Harry’s hips, bringing them flush against each other. Harry groaned, feeling the hot press of Callum’s erection through the cloth, rubbing against him full body as though to prove the assessment right.

Callum gave a choked noise, the muffled ‘ _fuck me_ ’ against his shoulder bringing a smile to Harry’s mouth that was decidedly satisfied.

“That was the point, darling,” Harry murmured against the shell of Callum’s ear.

He had a feeling he’d pay for the cheek as Callum pushed him down onto the bed, but there was a fond look on the tech’s face as he took over undressing himself, peeling himself out of the waistcoat that hugged his ribs and undid the buttons of his shirt. His braces were gone in a blinking and he shucked his trousers, climbing onto the bed after Harry.

Harry backed up the bed, getting comfortable and sliding out of his own trousers, kicking them away as Callum pressed them together, grinding hard against him. Harry let out a whine, feeling the hard press of Callum against his belly, the sensation of want doubling down as the Scot let his mouth roam across the expanse of Harry’s chest.

“And here I thought you’d take the lead,” Callum said, his brogue a rumble against Harry’s senses.

“Sometimes,” Harry panted. He opened his eyes to find hazel ones regarding him with a certain amount of amusement. “I find it…easier to lose control. Admit it, you like bossing me around.”

“A bit,” Callum conceded, grinning. He moved lower, Harry inhaling sharply as his mouth found contact with the jut of his hip. Callum bit and the inhale became a muffled curse as Harry bit down against the heel of his own hand to avoid waking the neighbors.

Callum chuckled, reaching up. He brushed his thumb against Harry’s bottom lip and Harry obliged him, turning from his own hand to his partner’s. He let Callum tease him with the pad of his thumb for a moment, then flicked his tongue against it. There was a sharp intake of breath from the man above him and Harry, in a fit of impish pique, closed his mouth around it, laving the pad of Callum’s thumb with his tongue before sucking gently.

“Fuck,” Callum groaned. Harry felt that same sense of pride, well up again, having wrenched that reaction from Callum.

Callum removed his thumb, moving up to cover Harry as he kissed him soundly.

Every time they came together, there was a curious pressure in Harry’s chest, like the feeling he got while watching a storm on the horizon. He remembered one of his first missions in Egypt, watching the roiling clouds of dust descend on his position, and he’d stayed where he was, letting it come towards him until it was almost too late before scrambling for cover.

It felt like that, but on a grander scale, and Harry was helpless before it, rolling his hips up against Callum as the other ground down against him in return.

“Do you have…” Callum was breathless, his hazel eyes dark as he looked down at Harry. He halted, reddening. Harry realized belatedly that they’d gone about this fumbling like teenagers, even though this was hardly their first times. With each other, yes, but as people? Harry had less than a handful of partners, but he knew what he liked. Callum carried himself like someone who’d had other partners, at least – though one could never really assume, Harry supposed.

“I don’t,” Harry said hoarsely. “But I will, as soon as the shops open in the morning.”

“Ah,” Callum said. He looked down between them, moving his hips experimentally. “Then—”

“If you stop now, I _will_ hit you, Callum,” Harry said, good humor not lending any bite to the words. “There are other ways.”

“You’re right,” Callum said, swallowing. “There are.”

“Morgana checked me over before I left,” Harry added. “Clean as a whistle.”

“Aye,” Callum said, voice thick. “Me as well.”

Harry reached up, long fingers caressing Callum’s face. The other man looked down at him, the uncertainty there warring with the desire that hadn’t flagged since the alleyway. There were so many things to be afraid of in these modern times—the silent killer that was spreading like wildfire through the queer community, the backlash and hatred, the danger of outing oneself. Everything that yammered in Harry’s head that this was a bad idea—it all stopped when Callum held him, and that was the greatest reason of all to keep this close to his chest, let it flutter its wings against his cupped palms, and figure out if he could bear to let it go later.

“Callum,” Harry said. “We go on, we make the best of things, and I’ll make a supply run when the shops open in the morning. Yeah?”

He could feel the other begin to nod, and tugged him in for a kiss, grinning.

“Besides, there’s plenty I can do with my hands in the meantime,” he murmured against the shell of Callum’s ear.

“You cheeky—” It was lost in a soft groan as Harry’s hands wandered lower. “ _Harry_.”

His name, in that tone, that needy, desperate groan against his ear, was like lightning traveling through his veins. There was a rush of power there that was only doubled as Callum pressed him against the bed, kissing down his chest. He let out a curse as Callum trailed his teeth across one of Harry’s nipples, scraping gently and teasing it until Harry nearly thrashed his head.

It was _decadent_ , laying here and letting Callum take what he wanted. Harry had never really considered the term in regards to sex; honestly, before now if you’d mentioned it in that context, Harry was more likely to roll his eyes rather than to be intrigued. But laying here, on the bed with Callum sweeping his hands across fevered skin, arching up against the open-mouthed kisses that the Scotsman pressed against his ribs and stomach, Harry was luxuriating in the attention. He’d had the tech damn near to himself for most of the mission, and there was a…sense of victory about having him here, now, like this.

If asked, he wouldn’t label it smug, though that might come hand in hand with having such a beautiful man currently mouthing at his hips. It was a sense of…rightness. This was exactly where he wanted to be, and where Callum deserved to be. Not forced into some meaningless shag in a drafty office just to plant some bugs.

Harry had the devil’s own luck, and he knew it.

He jerked his focus back to the moment, his hazy ruminations disappearing as Callum moved lower, dragging the waistband of Harry’s boxers down, trailing his lips against Harry’s iliac muscle, making his hips jump. Harry groaned softly, only to hear the breathy chuckle from Callum, as though that had been the intention all along, dragging Harry’s attention back as Callum paused at his Adonis belt. Harry sighed out, running a hand through Callum’s hair as he moved lower, watching the arch of his back as Callum’s broad hands caressed his flanks.

Harry gasped as he was finally freed from the confines of his shorts, lifting his hips on instinct as Callum slid callused hands down the outside of his thighs, sliding the last of Harry’s clothing down and off. The pass of cooler air across his body left him shivering, but it turned into anticipation as he watched Callum settle between his thighs.

“So damnably pretty,” Callum murmured, the puff of his breath against the base of Harry’s cock making him twitch. Callum framed Harry’s hips with his hands, sweeping a gentle touch down to his thighs, something that left Harry shaking. “All of you is so damnably pretty.”

Harry gasped softly as Callum bent his mouth to brush warm air over his groin as he teased him. His fingers wrapped around Harry’s cock, and the sob Harry let out made the sensation stop as Callum looked up in concern.

“Don’t stop,” Harry demanded, fingers fisted in the sheets beside him, knuckles white. “ _Callum, please_.”

Callum gave a nod, satisfied that Harry was all right, and bent his head to his task again. The first touch of his lips wrapping around the crown of Harry’s cock nearly made Harry bolt off the bed. He was wound as tight as a watch spring, the thread that Callum had been carefully drawing taut with his teasing already about to snap.

“Fuck,” Harry mumbled, throwing an arm over his eyes, unable to watch and keep coherent. “Just like that. Don’t stop, _please_.”

There was a rumble of assent against his thighs, the sound traveling up Callum’s throat and against his cock and Harry whined. It was so good, the anticipation nothing to the culmination. Harry concentrated on the feel, the drag of skin on skin, the wet heat of Callum’s mouth, the gentlest scrape of teeth making him hiss. Callum pulled back, tongue tracing the head, and Harry got the barest glimpse of hazel eyes seeking his approval before Callum was swallowing him again, making him arch against the Scot like a cat.

“Not long,” Harry warned him, a hand moving to thread through Callum’s dark hair. “Keep going, almost—”

Callum hummed. He’d heard. He backed off, pumping his fist around Harry’s cock, sucking gently against the head. Harry cried out, twisting in the bedsheets as he pulsed into Callum’s mouth, feeling the rasp of the other’s tongue as he swallowed. Harry was drenched in sweat, feeling boneless and wrung out, even as he looked down to find Callum pulling back with a satisfied look that defied all reason. He took genuine pleasure in leaving Harry this wrecked, and something about it pinged hard against Harry’s desires. He gestured for Callum to come closer and the other man obliged, crawling up Harry’s frame and settling himself just beside him, pressed against him like a second skin, and Harry curled against him. He could feel long fingers running through his hair, pads scratching gently at his scalp, and Harry hummed softly.

Callum pressed a kiss against Harry’s shoulder as he settled in beside him.

The sweetness of the simple action, the care, made Harry’s breath catch. He got Callum’s attention with the hitch of his breath, and he simply grinned at him, unable to tell him that this was just making it harder for him to let go.

“Give me a minute to catch my breath,” he mumbled. “And then we’ll see if I can’t do better.”

“We have time,” Callum repeated, his throaty chuckle just making Harry scoot closer, twining with the Scot as though it would keep them suspended in time as he buried his face in Callum’s shoulder.

* * *

Callum perched on the end of the bed, the small table dragged over so he could perch his listening equipment there. He was dressed in nothing but his shorts, the headset over his ears so he could filter through the last few conversations that had recorded.

Three days had passed.

The second day, Callum had called, making his apologies and saying that he’d been called home to Scotland as his mother had died. He let himself be seen at the airport, boarding a plane, and then doubled back as soon as the plane had landed at Heathrow. Under the cover of darkness, he’d snuck back to the flat, and their real mission began.

While Christian did a lot of his business over the phone, there was no mention of a sale yet. Callum rewound, filtering through the rapid-fire German to be sure he was scribing everything correctly. Later, he would type in everything he’d found and send it back to Merlin via encoded transmissions through the phone lines. They’d been checking in with Thomas via coded messages, receiving the general ‘stay put’ message from Central for the last two nights.

That suited Callum just fine, spending more time with Harry. The Knight was currently sprawled beside him on the bed, splayed out on his belly in the nude as he listened to the conversation as well. While Callum spoke better German, Harry was better at picking out background conversation and noises. One never knew when an errant sound might lead them to a breakthrough, and there was plenty of listening to keep them both busy.

Callum let his gaze drift from his pad, however, trailing down the slope of Harry’s back. His shoulders were dotted with light freckles, his spine kissed by the sun in previous summers abroad. New marks were Callum’s doing, if he were honest – his nails had left welts on Harry’s shoulders from clinging to the Knight too hard. Harry hadn’t mentioned them hurting; in fact, he’d only seemed to want to show them off, leaving his shirts packed away while he resided in the flat. Callum’s gaze traveled lower, over the swell of Harry’s arse, to the muscles of the Knight’s long legs.

Harry was a mess of love bites and bruising on the backs and insides of his thighs, some reaching as high as the curve of his backside. These, Callum had intended to leave, and Harry was even more proud of them than the scratches.

The tech reached out, running his fingers down Harry’s spine, only for Harry to stretch, sending the muscles rippling beneath Callum’s hand. The Knight leaned over, pressing a kiss to Callum’s hip, nuzzling at his thigh, and Callum set his pad to the side.

“Anything new?” he asked, once they’d divested themselves of their headsets. Harry shook his head, rolling his shoulders in a shrug.

“Nothing I could discern. They’ve been nattering at each other about the warehouse for two days, but the ones I sent Thomas to check have turned up nothing of interest. The boxes we thought were other munitions turned out to be packed relics for the _Gallerie dell'Accademia_ in Venice.” Harry sighed. “I’m starting to think we may have missed our deadline.”

“The news hasn’t covered anything remotely like escalation, which would have surely happened if Cuba had been able to acquire the warheads,” Callum murmured. He didn’t stop his slow massage of Harry’s back, simply touching for the sheer pleasure of touching as he spoke. “They’re antsy about something. They keep mentioning a deadline but we’ve heard nothing.”

Harry stretched, turning to angle himself more snugly against Callum’s hip. “Then we’ll keep listening. We’ve got no other leads.”

“Exactly. And since that was the last recording…”

“A break?” Harry asked, lifting his brows at Callum.

Callum chuckled, carding his hand through Harry’s curls, dipping his head to kiss him lightly. As it had for the past three days, the agreement of a break turned their minds from the mission to each other, and Harry rose to meet Callum, sitting up and pressing his chest to the tech’s back as he trailed little kisses along his shoulders and spine.

Callum shivered, wondering where it would lead him this time. Harry had proven himself to be an unflagging, enthusiastic lover. He was creative, but it was the care he took each time that left Callum reeling. He always asked for permission to try something new, and they were never without supplies. He’d come back from Heathrow only to be flung to the bed and kissed until his eyes crossed, then confined to bed for the rest of the evening by a very appreciative Harry Hart.

It was a decided improvement in their arrangement.

There was no disappointment where Harry was concerned, unless he turned his thoughts to the looming separation when the mission was over. He kept that firmly from his mind, instead arching against Harry as hands slid from his stomach to his chest.

“Do you trust me?” Harry’s whisper in his ear only served to make him swallow, his cock coming to attention as soon as he registered the low silk of the whisper. He nodded, and the slide of cloth over his eyes made his heartbeat cloud his ears. It was Harry’s tie, Callum could tell from the faint scent of the cologne Harry wore.

He was guided back to the bed, urged to lay back as Harry pressed kisses against his chest and neck. He reached for Harry, only to hear laughter as Harry avoided his groping.

“Keep your hands in the sheets, Dove. I’ll be right back.” Callum inhaled, letting the darkness settle over him. He rested his hands on his stomach, feeling his heart pound even as he tolerated the game that Harry was playing. It was new, and exciting, and Callum found he quite enjoyed the heightened sensation.

The nickname was something else entirely. That was getting a little too familiar for something that was supposed to end so soon. Still, he made no mention of it, his fingers twitching as he listened.

He could hear Harry bustling about in the kitchen, the freezer opening and shutting, and felt the bed sag a bit as Harry climbed back up.

The ice cube touching his lips made him flinch, but he paused when he realized what Harry was doing. He settled back in, letting Harry trace the curve of his lips with it, letting the slowly melting cube drip chilled water onto his bare flesh. He shivered, swallowing, as Harry traced the ice cube lower.

His whole chest broke out into gooseflesh as he felt Harry trace the cube along his sternum, heat pooling in his stomach as Harry drew shapes against Callum’s skin. He groaned softly as it trailed toward his stomach, squirming as he felt Harry lift it and follow its path with his mouth instead, chasing water droplets with his lips and tongue.

“Please,” Callum mumbled, reaching for Harry, but he was just out of reach, laughter in the dark.

“So eager,” Harry chided, dragging chilled fingertips across Callum’s sides, making him jump and squirm. “Are you that ready?”

“Always,” Callum replied, humming as he felt Harry’s fingers slide towards his waistband. Harry’s chuckle was breathy, but he pinned Callum’s wrists above his head, holding them there with one hand.

“Keep those there,” Harry instructed. “No touching.”

“And if I do?” Callum countered.

“I stop,” Harry said, chuckling as his voice moved away. Obediently, Callum kept his hands above his head, ears straining for Harry’s return. He jumped when Harry spoke right beside him.

“You keep saying I’m beautiful,” he murmured, tugging at Callum’s waistband. Callum lifted his hips, aiding Harry at getting his shorts off, letting him run his cool fingers across heated skin. “I don’t think you realize just how captivating you are.”

“Hah,” Callum snorted. “A brat from the Glasgow gutter?”

“A Kingsman,” Harry returned. “A man whose brain is as spectacular as yours, who keeps me guessing? A man with a lovely arse and the forearms to match, who I’ve begged, over and over, to have his gorgeous hands on me. Who wouldn’t be attracted to that? I’m a lucky bastard, getting you all to myself for as long as I’ve had you.”

“Pull the other one,” Callum said, feeling the flush crawling up his neck and spreading to his chest.

“I’m not joking,” Harry murmured, and Callum sighed, feeling the brush of Harry’s lips, featherlight against his chest as the other traced his hands down the tech’s sides. “You keep marking me and I keep gagging for it, because the idea of being all yours is exactly what I want. What happens if I return the favor?”

Harry’s fingers made a lazy circle about his nipple, making it bead before he tugged gently, making Callum curse. He soothed it with a kiss, delving into Callum’s mouth, sucking his tongue and tasting him before pulling back with an almost obscene hum of pleasure.

“It felt good, when you admitted that you couldn’t go through with it unless it was me you were thinking of,” Harry said, his hand sliding downward until he was feathering his fingertips over Callum’s cock. Callum groaned, twisting his head to the side as he grit his teeth.

_Of course_ Harry would want to drag this out, make it last. Callum could feel his release building, but he knew that Harry enjoyed teasing him until he was right at the teetering edge of orgasm, then pull back until he could key him up again.

“You look upset, Dove,” Harry murmured, kissing Callum again. “Something you need?”

“I need you inside me right now or I might just take this blindfold off and do something about it,” Callum said, more gruffly than he intended.

It had the desired effect, however; Harry _growled_. It shot desire, hot and electric, straight to Callum’s groin, and he bucked his hips. He could feel the bed sag as Harry moved closer, pressing Callum’s thighs open, his kiss bruising. Callum responded, biting as Harry slicked himself up, making the Knight hiss. His fingers probed at Callum and he rolled his hips down, encouraging Harry to hurry up.

What had started as a slow tease had morphed to a desperate joining in an instant, and Callum was glad for it. He couldn’t bear the slow, loving touches anymore. It was going to drive him to distraction, to the point of forgetting the agreement they had made.

It was far too easy to fall in love with Harry Hart.

He would much rather have this, the needy, desperate part. This part, he could have and understand. Callum raked his nails down Harry’s back, and Harry’s forearm jumped, making Callum groan. Harry leaned in to devour his mouth again, ragged breathing mingling with Harry’s own.

“ _Let me keep you,_ ” Harry whispered, his French broken as he resituated and guided himself into Callum. Callum welcomed the press of Harry’s length, the slide of their bodies delicious friction as he squeezed, making Harry curse.

_I can’t. **I can’t.** I can give you this. Let it be enough._

Callum dragged Harry down, kissing him deep, and Harry began to move. Long, slow strokes that were just on the edge of making Callum delirious, he guided Callum’s hands to his hips, letting him hold onto him any way he could.

Harry began to shorten his thrusts, their breaths mingling as Harry fumbled between them for Callum’s cock. Awkward at first, he found a rhythm, and Callum felt the build of pressure begin in his stomach, his thighs trembling as he kept himself arched so that Harry could drive himself as deep as he needed. There was a moment, a breath, and then Harry hit exactly where Callum needed him to go, the calluses skimming over him making him twitch, and then the thread snapped.

He had no warning, spilling over Harry’s fist with a choked cry, an arm flung over his eyes as he trembled through it. Harry’s thrusts didn’t slow, the Knight driving into him with enough force that Callum knew he’d be sore for a while afterwards, but he welcomed the physicality of it, hazy in the thought of it.

He could deal with being sore.

Harry followed him shortly thereafter, trembling against him as he slowed, twitching inside Callum still.

They were silent for a long moment, their banter dissipating in the weight of the things that had been happening while neither had been aware. Callum took a chance and lifted the tie from where it was fastened around his head, peering up at Harry in the lamplight.

He found Harry watching him.

Callum expected a conversation—something, _anything_ —but Harry just leaned in, kissing him sweetly. Callum could taste the salt on his tongue, but he leaned into the kiss like it was his last. Harry pulled back, fingers tracing Callum’s cheek. Without a word, Harry pulled free, and moved to clean them both up, returning after disposing of the condom. He had a lukewarm, damp flannel, and he took his time, swiping it over Callum gently.

Harry’s expression was unreadable, but he slid behind Callum, his arms wrapping around the tech’s chest, their legs tangling. He held him as if he might dissipate between his fingers, and Callum swallowed hard, his heart thumping against his ribs as he covered one of Harry’s hands with his own.

_Let me keep you._

He turned in Harry’s arms, herding him close and carding his fingers through Harry’s hair. Let him have this, he begged whoever was listening. Just for tonight. He could make do with the memories for a lifetime.

In another life this might have been a permanent arrangement; though in another life, who was to say they’d have met at all?

Harry sighed quietly, and Callum moved his fingers to Harry’s neck as he felt him relax. That was enough, the quiet snuffle of Harry’s breathing as he drifted off. Callum stroked his neck for a little longer, the lamplight hardly enough to bother him while he was sleeping. He wanted it on as long as possible so he could study Harry’s profile.

Against his will, he slipped into sleep, Harry’s face tucked against his shoulder.

* * *

“ _Harry._ ”

Harry woke midmorning to Callum shaking his shoulder. He buried his face in the pillow, only to have the tech jerk it away from his grasp and hit him with it.

“Harry, wake **_up_** ,” Callum said. Harry groaned, sitting up, to find Callum half-dressed. This was such an unreasonable start to his morning already that he found he had little humor to deal with the pillow thrown at his head when he whined and tried to roll over. “Complain later, _I’ve got him_.”

Harry was much more alert then, sliding from beneath the sheets and moving for the recorder. Callum had been listening intently, if the cup of cold tea beside the device was any indication. Harry accepted the headset from Callum. He seemed to have picked up a phone conversation, and Harry listened intently, perched on the end of the bed with Callum at his shoulder.

_“You have the goods?”_ This was a voice Harry didn’t recognize, the gruff German similar to Christian’s but spoken with an authoritative bite, like Christian was an underling.

_“Sir. Our friends have finally delivered the last pieces from Saratov. We’ll be ready to move by the end of the week.”_

_“Good. See that things move smoothly. We’re running a business, not a fucking opium den. I don’t want Huber and Peters to fall asleep like they did earlier. Keep them off that shit until we close the deal.”_

_“Of course, sir. Do you want to oversee the last stages at the warehouse?”_

_“Yes. See to the rest. I’ll check in with you on Thursday, at the usual place.”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

There was the click of a phone being replaced in the cradle, then the recorder stopped in order to save tape. Harry turned to Callum, grinning wildly. He pressed a kiss to Callum’s temple, the other shoving at him as he nearly brought the two of them off the bed in his enthusiasm.

“Callum, you brilliant bastard. Well done. Signal Lancelot. I’ll get dressed and put on the kettle.” Harry was already up and moving for the shower. “We have plans to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your patience has been rewarded, Constant Readers.
> 
> I still managed to get some plot in there, too. Moving right along. There will be more Bon Dia! Soon. We're getting ready to wrap up, maybe a handful of chapters left, but I'll be sure to keep you in the loop. Thanks for spending so much time with me, it means a lot to me.
> 
> As always, I look forward to your comments, so if you'd like, feel free to leave me one.


	11. Checkmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hope exists solely to be snuffed out.

Lancelot knocked on their door half an hour after their initial discovery. While not winded, he was still very much the picture of a man who’d hurried as they let him into the small apartment. He smoothed his suit jacket, accepting the cup of tea Galahad poured him as he fixed Emrys with a look.

“What have you heard?” he asked.

“Sir.” Emrys held out the headset. “How’s your German?”

“Passable,” Lancelot replied. He took a seat on the end of the bed, settling the headset over his ears. Emrys played the recording for him as Lancelot sat, eyes closed, listening.

Callum took the opportunity to cast a hasty look about himself for anything they might have missed in their initial cleanup. While Lancelot was Harry’s mentor, that didn’t mean that the same benevolent gaze fell on him and that was worrisome. While discretion had been the name of the game, as holed up in the room as they had been, thankfully their breaks to listen to the tapes and air out the rooms had done them a world of good. They’d made the bed and tidied up, and both were dressed, though barefoot.

Close enough.

Thomas listened to the tape thrice over before he was satisfied, reading through the transcript Callum had written after. He nodded, frowning, as he considered their options.

“We have orders from Central to intercept the deal if we can, and recover the warheads,” Thomas said. “So long as we don’t put the public in danger, we are to resort to any methods at our disposal.”

“The most glaring issue I can see is that we don’t know where ‘the usual place’ is,” Callum said. “We can’t tail them there, Galahad and I are both known to them.”

“Then leave that bit to me,” Lancelot said. “I’ll root out their hiding spot and you can join me as soon as you’re able. Emrys, you are to record everything you can, whilst staying out of sight. Galahad, you are to join me in the field as soon as the ancillary threats are neutralized. Do we know who that other voice is? I know you’ve marked down your honeypot target.”

“We don’t,” Callum said with a frown.

“This is the first time we’ve heard him, and the first time they’ve received any orders instead of given them,” Harry added. “It almost feels like…bait.”

“While normally I would encourage you to trust your instincts,” Thomas said, his frown growing deeper, “We haven’t the time for trial and error. Word from Central is that our moles within Smolensk have reported several crates of nuclear materiel have disappeared from the inventories as though they’d never been there, which means that the transport is either on its way or almost here. As sloppy as it is, this may be our one chance to recover it before it ends up closer to the Americas. Using the German go-betweens won’t stop them from shipping it right to the colonies’ doorstep, mark my words. We know where it’s going, and we know who, we just don’t know when, and that’s the stickiest part.”

Harry crossed his arms, head tilted as he considered. “Then this seems to be the best plan of action. Take an earpiece and we’ll tail you to the club. From what I was able to pick out, the heavy lifters use it as a meeting point.”

Thomas nodded, accepting the small earpiece that Callum dug out for him. The size of a small coin, the earpiece was near invisible while worn; as the ones Harry and Callum wore, it was good up to a certain radius unless the tech department had been given warning and were able to install boosters in the nearby area. Thomas tucked it into his ear, and Callum heard the crackle of static in the others as his activated.

“We’ll have to keep close,” Callum warned with a frown. “I haven’t had time to set signal boosters, we’ll need to keep within a rifle’s visual range in order to be most effective.”

“Not ideal in the city streets,” Thomas said. “But perhaps enough to get the job done.”

It was clear that the whole operation left the other two feeling uneasy. Trained agents were hard to spook; the lack of knowledge about all the variables was making everyone’s hackles rise, however. Callum could understand it. He didn’t like this any better, a curious twisting in his stomach at the thought of sending Thomas into danger without having time to research.

“Well,” Thomas said, finishing his mug of tea in several long swallows, handing Harry the mug, “We’ll have to see what we shall see. I’m going to get started. Rendezvous at the fountain halfway between the two points and we’ll continue from there. Galahad, you’ll neutralize individual threats as necessary and guide Emrys to where he can record safely. We may need him to neutralize the warheads as well, or at least render them inert.”

“Sir,” they echoed, Harry and Callum splitting off to prepare their individual roles. Callum felt that tremor in his stomach get worse, anticipation building at the base of his spine as he pulled on the rest of his clothing and his shoes and gathered his gear.

He startled when Harry touched his shoulder, turning to find the Knight in full bespoke, a smile quirking the corner of his mouth.

“We’ve done worse with less,” Harry said. He’d already locked the door behind Thomas as he left, so he chanced it and pressed a soft, sweet kiss to Callum’s mouth. The tension dissipated, easing as the chaste contact made Callum lean into Harry. “And we’ve got you. You’re brilliant.”

“Well, I _will_ turn the tide one of these days,” Callum said with a wry tick upward of his mouth. Harry pressed his forehead to the tech’s, almost as if he regretted this being the end of their time together. But if the mission was successful, there wasn’t anything to regret. Callum slid his hand up Harry’s neck, squeezing gently. “Come on, we need to catch up.”

* * *

The early morning hours were quiet tonight. The bars had closed, and the only sounds were his footsteps and the distant shirr of the ocean. He could smell the salt, and the breeze that ruffled his hair was cooling coming off the water. He moved like a shadow, flitting through the darkness toward the fountain. Galahad and Emrys would catch up with him soon, and he would continue on to his destination.

This whole thing smacked of a trap, but orders from Central were orders signed off on by Arthur himself. Despite Thomas’s personal opinion on the man, this was too important to let slide. If they could manage to stop it here, they could stop any unnecessary saber-rattling from the US and Russia, and that, in and of itself, would be a good thing.

As a seasoned Knight of Kingsman, Lancelot loathed playing things by ear. The less he knew, the more that could go wrong, and he was not about to acknowledge that this whole thing left a sour taste in his mouth in front of the youngest of their Knights. This was going to be ugly, he could feel it in his bones.

Still, no worse than Croatia. Thomas waited at the fountain, concealed in the shadows of a darkened doorway until he saw the flicker of the shadows that indicated Galahad and Emrys had arrived. The crackle of soft static in his ear made him nod absently. There they were.

“Galahad, I’m moving on,” he murmured softly, disengaging from the shadows at Galahad’s quiet affirmation. He could feel their tail as they followed at a distance, sometimes breaking to side streets or alleyways to avoid being seen. To their credit, however, had he not known they were following, he might have missed them entirely.

The air was cool, though not to the point of the summer giving way to the autumn just yet. He was glad. His bespoke, with its metal plating, could be overly warm. Now, however, the extra weight added confidence to his footsteps as he approached the club where Emrys had planted the bugs. He’d haunted the area, though not enough to arouse suspicion, and usually during the day; he was interested in architecture, at least that was the story he spun while sketching buildings and keeping a covert eye on the comings and goings.

Now, however, the club was winding down. Thomas checked his watch, noting that last call had to have been close to half an hour ago. His brow wrinkled as he slipped across the street to the alleyway beside the club, peering into the windows. Most of the bodyguards were gathered around one of the tables while a few made a show of closing up—it was a place of business, after all.

“Six on the floor, eight at the table,” he murmured. “We’ll likely have to deal with all of them eventually.”

“There should be more patrolling the streets and alley in teams of two,” Harry replied. “I counted at least three pairs while Emrys was planting the bugs.”

“Ah, there they are,” Thomas said, nodding and slinking further back into the shadows, ducking behind the rubbish bins as the pair slowly made a circuit through the alley where he’d been standing. They were armed with MP5K sub-machine guns; while Thomas didn’t want to be on the other side of the barrels, he approved of their choice. Easy to conceal and carry, they would allow a team of bodyguards the security of being armed and about outside without fear of discovery.

They spoke quietly in Russian as they passed, trading a cigarette back and forth as they made their rounds. Thomas listened to their conversation, but it didn’t reveal much of what they were planning; these were low-level men at best, likely not privy to what their employers were planning. Thomas rose to his feet as they passed, pressing himself flat against the rough brick of the building and peering into the window, trying to keep as hidden as possible to those inside.

While he didn’t know Christian by sight, it was easy enough to extrapolate based on Emrys’s description as well as the attention paid him when he descended the stairs from the office. It was easy enough to tell him apart from the rougher sort at the table. While the men who guarded him looked to be either former Spetznas or former inmates in the prison system (depending on their tattoos), Christian had none visible. He also issued orders like he was in charge, divvying up tasks between them that Thomas could only partially make out via lip-reading. He kept a low running commentary of things of note, his eyes flicking around the room as he tried to take in as much as possible.

Four of the eight rose as Christian jerked his chin at them in a nod to let them know they were dismissed. As a unit, they moved for the back door, gathering more of the compact sub-machine guns and looping them over their shoulders before they headed off into the night. The others began helping break down the bar for the night, and Thomas made a decision.

“I’m following the ones he sent off,” he murmured.

“Godspeed, we’ll be right behind you.” Galahad’s voice was tight, but Thomas didn’t worry about the young men now.

Now, it was time for work.

His dark navy suit made him hard to spot as he moved from pool of shadow to darkened alcove, but he still kept a respectable distance as he peeled away from the building and moved to tail the group headed for the docks. They were talking quietly in Russian, but it was mostly in-jokes passed back and forth, bullshit to pass the time as snatches of conversation floated towards Thomas. He trailed them through several winding side streets, knowing that these men would avoid the main thoroughfares, as one usually did when one wanted to keep a low profile.

And these men did, Thomas knew. He shrank back into a doorway when they stopped, presumably to light another round of cigarettes as they chatted. Only Thomas noticed the way one head would turn slowly, scanning their surroundings for listening ears or prying eyes. Thomas was still, counting shallow breaths in heartbeats, thankful it wasn’t cold enough to reveal him by his exhalations.

After a moment, when the cherry of their cigarettes glowed again, they resumed walking, their sub-machineguns held close to their sides. Thomas resumed his trek, following them through the sleepy streets. Cars passed by, occasionally, on the main thoroughfares, but it was still early enough that even the bakers and other early risers hadn’t woken yet for work.

Lancelot’s trail led him inexorably to the east, where the shore met the sea. There was no way for the Russians to transport the goods across the land, not without drawing attention, and a plane would do the same; it was logical that they would resort to the water. The smell of salt grew stronger in his nose, as did the rushing sound of the waves lapping against the shores.

Here, though, was not a place for swimming and playing in the water. This part of town was the port, and the stench of fish and wet wood assailed him. The water here was dark and murky with promise, and he followed the men as they made their way through the warehouses that lined the shore to what appeared to be an old fishery. The building itself allowed for boats to sail directly inside, dumping their catch directly on the packing floor; Thomas realized that this was probably the smartest move that someone like Christian and his employer could make.

It allowed for the trade of munitions under the cover of a warehouse—and it explained the disappearance, if the Russians were using a submersible. They could sail the thing right inside, if the waters were deep enough and the submarine small enough. Thomas frowned as he approached, sticking to the walls of the buildings to break up his silhouette.

This was a problem, if there were Russians in submarines lurking about.

“Lancelot,” Harry murmured.

“Mm.”

“The fishery up ahead—”

“I see it, Galahad. As good a spot as any, correct?” Thomas kept his voice to a low murmur, barely moving his lips.

“Better than most,” Harry replied. Good lad; he’d come to the same conclusion as Thomas, then. “Shall we move in?”

“Do a perimeter sweep,” Thomas said. “Find a safe spot for Emrys to set up shop, and then join me inside.”

“Sir.”

Thomas crept toward the large double doors of the fishery, meant for driving a delivery truck through. Likely the notice of demolition was false, though it looked legal enough to keep out looky-loos and squatters, and that was really all that was needed. There was a smaller, man-sized door in the larger door, and it was ajar. Moving closer, he could hear the low murmur of voices speaking Russian.

“ _They don’t pay us enough for this_ ,” one of them muttered. Thomas drew his Tokarev, holding the pistol at the ready as he listened to the voices slowly receding. He frowned. What were the parameters, then? For the Russians to be using go-betweens, the rules had to be quite strict. Especially using German go-betweens.

The more he learned, the less he liked it. He nudged the door open wider. With bated breath, he exhaled once the door didn’t creak. Inside the fishery, there were large crates stacked about, likely either empty or full of other munitions. Perhaps trade fodder. He slipped inside, moving behind a stack of the taller ones.

Pools of light interrupted the darkness around as bare bulbs hung from the ceiling, and the smell of old fish was faint; this place hadn’t been used for its intended purpose for a while. The smell of gun oil and packing grease was far more prevalent, the bitter tang of it making his nose wrinkle as he pressed on. The fishery was large, being both processor and storage, with large freezer units in the back that seemed to be non-functional, judging by the lack of power lights above their doors. Guards patrolled in twos, strolling along the catwalks and in between the crates.

“No hostiles outside,” Galahad reported. “Moving for the doors.”

Thomas opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted by the press of a cold gun barrel against his neck.

“Damn,” he muttered.

“Lancelot?” Harry asked, but Thomas didn’t answer, lifting his hands. Judging by the size of the barrel, that was a submachine gun and he’d be swiss cheese before he could disarm the wielder.

“Стой,” said a voice behind him. In his ear, there was a sharply inhaled breath. “Drop your weapon.”

“ _Of course_ ,” Thomas said in Russian, setting the gun to the floor and kicking it to the side. He rose from his crouch as the gun pressed against the base of his skull, and his captor picked up the weapon. “ _How do you want to do this?_ ”

The crack of the sub-machine gun’s shortened stock across the back of his head answered his question, slamming him hard against the crate in front of him.

_Ah, the hard way_. It was his last thought as the world went dark.

* * *

Harry inhaled sharply. That wasn’t good. Thomas had been spotted, and the sound of a man getting clocked with a gun butt wasn’t something someone was likely to forget. He swore under his breath and moved for the fishery, his heart pounding in his ears.

“Be careful, Galahad,” Emrys warned. The brogue in his ear was soothing, even as his worry for Thomas made it hard to plan his next steps. He forced himself to breathe and calculate, thinking of his first move.

First, he’d need to extract Lancelot. Preferably without alerting Christian and the man who paid them all. Not having the layout of the fishery was unhelpful to say the least, and once again that feeling of foreboding crept over Harry as he slipped into the warehouse side, keeping to the shadows and working his way around as he caught sight of Thomas being dragged up the stairs to the office.

Like the clubs that were based in old warehouses, this fishery sported a series of rooms above, meant to look out over the workers on the floor. Two burly men carried a limp Lancelot toward the stairs, shortened sub-machine guns strapped to their shoulders. This wasn’t good at all.

Well, he’d gotten out of worse. Best thing to do now was play it by ear. Messy, but nothing for it, not if he wanted to get them all out alive.

He drew his pistol, following the men up the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moving right along. You'll noticed that we now have a chapter count. I've managed to plot out the rest of this monster, and that is your total chapters remaining, Constant Readers. I hope that you're enjoying the story, and I'll try to have more updates soon. Going back to two days off is going to be nice after the three months of overtime, so I'll have much more time to write.
> 
> I may not finish by November, but I should by the end of the year. That's plenty quick for me. Thanks for your patience, and as always, kudos and comments are greatly appreciated. Feel free to drop by [my tumblr](http://lywinis.tumblr.com/) if you have prompts for me, as well.


	12. Blown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
>     
>     
>         _No time for goodbye, he said
>     As he faded away
>     Don't put your life in someone's hands
>     They're bound to steal it away
>     Don't hide your mistakes
>     Cause they'll find you, burn you
>     Then he said
>     
>     If you want to get out alive
>     Run for your life **If you want to get out alive
>     Run for your life**_
>       

Harry kept on the guards dragging his mentor upstairs, following them into the heart of the fishery. Below him, he could hear muttered conversation, bits and pieces floating up like the scent of poorly rolled cigarettes the Russians favored. The only thing louder was the lap of the water below, seeming to come from inside the building.

“Galahad, don’t engage just yet,” Emrys said in his ear, his voice low. Harry frowned, his pistol in hand as he trailed the two carrying Lancelot up the stairs.

“Why the hell not?” he whispered, low enough that the men in front of him couldn’t hear.

“Because we might learn more about this mysterious employer.” Emrys’s logic was sound, but Harry saw how Thomas’s head dangled, and how limp Lancelot’s body was. This wasn’t a time to wait and see, not if he could help. “The more information I have, the better.”

“If I could manage it without making sure Lancelot isn’t currently bleeding out from a head wound, I would,” Harry said. “As it stands, he looks rather hurt. I’ll extract him and we can regroup. There’s no time to contact Central now anyway.”

Emrys sounded worried as Harry reported back. “Do as you think best, Galahad. I don’t have eyes on you, but I will soon. Be careful.”

“Ta, Emrys,” Harry muttered, scooting down the catwalk and keeping out of sight as much as possible.

The Russians dragged Thomas toward a darkened office. As Harry circled by following the catwalk, he realized that the office overlooked a shallow pool, as though they’d done some work on the dock. He could smell the ocean, even in here. There was enough room for a boat to sail right in…or for a small submersible to approach unseen—the fishery was built out into the water to allow for the drop off of a boat’s catch. The dock inside had been widened, the wooden slats that made up the floor pulled away to allow the housing of a pair of small speed boats.

They were light craft, however; not built for rough seas for long, and their fuel tanks held enough for short trips at best. They were better suited as leisure vehicles, meant to cart a man and the people he wanted to impress out on sunny jaunts on the water. Harry frowned. Why keep them here?

Suddenly, the choice of Barcelona made more sense to Galahad. The arms could be smuggled in either under the cover of darkness or simply trucked in underwater. The dealers would then wait until dark and move them out using the speed boats. Likely there was a ship moored out in international waters, safely out of reach of Spain’s jurisdiction, that would then take the arms to their intended destination.

The speed boats would keep their footprint minimal at best. A sailboat might be quieter, but would be noticed eventually. With all the rich men using Barcelona as a holiday spot, the speed boats would be ideal if they were caught.

Simple, yet elegant.

Harry pressed on, moving slowly and keeping as close to the back edges of the wall to avoid being seen.

Shadows lurked in the upper corners, the lower areas lit with small flood lights that were hidden from prying eyes by blacked-out windows covered in dark cloth. Mercenaries patrolled the floor below, armed with more submachine guns. This was going to be a sticky wicket, indeed. Harry frowned hard, trying to keep track of everything at once.

“Do we have clear exits?” he asked, crouch-walking past the office windows. While they were frosted glass, he had no doubt that they’d see his shadow if he were to straighten to full height. His voice was barely a whisper as he sidled past the door. He could see the figures inside as blurred shapes behind the glass, moving to toss Lancelot into a chair.

They were speaking to each other, not likely to notice him as he scooted away and beyond the office door.

“We do,” Emrys said, though the sound of him moving about was clear on the earpiece. “Southwest side of the building, just opposite where you entered.”

Harry glanced over the railing, noting that the inside was clear as well. “Good. I’ll grab Lancelot and get him out before we regroup. Are you armed with anything other than the Rainmaker?”

“Pistol, yes,” Emrys replied.

“Good. We’ll rendezvous outside.” Harry shifted down the catwalk further. There were two functioning offices, and Harry slipped into the other as the door they’d taken Lancelot into opened. Thankfully empty, it appeared to be an accounting office. Reasoning led Harry to believe that the other was for management, and he tucked himself out of sight of the windows.

While dark, he could see the outline of what looked to be filing cabinets, as well as smell the musty scent of paper. A desk sat in the corner, a heavy, uncomfortable looking chair outlined in moonlight that shone in through the window. He settled on the balls of his feet, poised right beside the door.

He pressed his ear to the thin wood of the door, listening.

The Russians passed by his window, chuckling about something or another. A space of heartbeats passed, and Harry chanced a look outside. The guards were gone, leaving the office clear. Harry crept out, drawing the door shut behind him. He’d lucked out, and he held his breath, peering into the other office as best he could through the frosted glass.

He could see the slumped form of Thomas, blurred as he was. The low lamplight meant that he would need to be careful, but if he could rouse his mentor, he could get them out without much of a fuss. He reached into his holster and pulled out the silencer for his Tokarev, screwing it onto the barrel.

While not truly silent, it would keep the noise down to a dull roar, which would help. It might keep them from being heard across the warehouse, which would keep the bulk of them away while he and Lancelot made their escape.

He tried the handle, and finding it unlocked, slipped inside.

Thomas had been in better shape. There was a goose-egg on the side of his temple, his head lolling against his chest as his breath came in a low wheeze. His hands were bound to the chair behind his back, and his ankles were bound to the chair leg. Pretty straightforward knots, at least. Harry set his gun to hand and withdrew the knife he’d strapped to his ankle before they’d left to cut the ropes.

“Lancelot,” he whispered. Thomas stirred, but didn’t rouse. Harry patted him gently on the face. “Chocks up, old man, we need to get you out of here. Come on, rise and shine.”

There was no answer for a long moment, Harry’s breathing gone to nothing as he watched the unsteady rise and fall of Thomas’s chest. His heart thudded in his chest, the minutes ticking by and their escape window closing. He was prepared to take Thomas out bodily if he had to, but it would make things much trickier. He wasn’t bleeding, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a concussion.

Harry wished he had the smelling salts he normally kept. They’d shot out the door so fast they hadn’t planned for everything. He reached up and patted Thomas’s face again, a little harder.

“Lancelot.”

Lancelot snorted. Harry peered up at his face, the half-lidded gaze not all there, but coming around. Thank god, he thought to himself. He busied himself with seeing to Lancelot’s bonds as his mentor came to.

“Thank god,” Emrys echoed, hearing Thomas rousing. “Check his pupils, please.”

“Galahad,” Thomas said. “You’re taking a huge risk. Go neutralize the targets.”

“We don’t know who the targets _are_ ,” Harry argued, sawing through the ropes that secured Thomas’s hands. “The idea was to extract you, get you to safety, then come back and save the day like the virile young buck I am.”

“Cheeky,” muttered Thomas, but he moved when Harry freed his hands, rubbing his wrists. “How long was I out?”

“Less than half an hour, more than fifteen minutes. Still worrisome, at your age,” Harry said, slicing through the last of the ropes. “Let me see your face.”

Thomas allowed his eyelids to be peeled back so that Harry could check his pupils. He wasn’t moving sluggishly, mentally, but it had still scared Harry for a second. He’d been trained by this man; for him to be taken so easily…

Thomas was hardly one to get caught flat-footed, and this whole thing smacked of something more at work. The more Harry allowed himself to look at it, the less he liked it. Stuck in the throes of reacting, rather than reasoning, it was easy to miss. Harry scowled, but they needed to press on.

He didn’t have a choice.

Thomas appeared hale and whole. It would be fine. They just needed to get outside. Harry gave his mentor another once-over, then nodded, picking up his Tokarev.

“Morgana would have a fit, but we don’t have much of a choice. Can you stand?” Harry asked.

“I can,” Thomas replied. “We’re still outnumbered, however.”

“The doorway is clear,” Harry said. He handed off his knife to his mentor, knowing that at least something was better than nothing. “So long as we get down the stairs and out that door, we’ll make it back just fine and we can plan another way in. Emrys, we’re coming to you.”

“Copy that, Galahad. Be careful.”

“Always.”

He and Lancelot crept to the door, and he pressed his ear to it, listening intently.

It was quiet. Harry swallowed, then nodded to Thomas. They could get out. He just had to be as good as he was known for being. The door didn’t creak, swinging open silently.

Harry prayed their good luck held long enough to get them outside. He and Thomas exited, their gazes sweeping the catwalk. As they moved, they kept themselves low and to the shadows that seemed to descend from the upper rafters of the fishery, skirting the areas where the flood lights painted everything in a too-sharp bright contrast.

“Emrys,” Harry murmured. “We’re almost to the door.”

They were halfway down the stairs, Harry armed and Thomas clutching the railing for balance, but they froze when Callum didn’t respond.

“Emrys, do you copy?”

Silence. Harry felt a pit open in his stomach, and he swallowed hard. He hadn’t heard a gunshot, and they were close enough to the building that he would have. Emrys was either captured or—

Harry pushed the thought away.

“Emrys.” Thomas was trying now, his hand to his ear as he whispered. “Emrys, are you there?”

No answer. Thomas put a hand on Harry’s shoulder, and he nodded. They kept moving, reaching the ground floor and taking cover behind a crate of weaponry just in time for the door to open. There was the sound of a scuffle outside, and then Harry could hear Emrys swearing a blue streak as he was dragged bodily into the fishery.

He dared a look over the top of the crate. He and Lancelot were hidden in the shadows, and he watched as his partner was hauled into the blinding glare of the flood lights. The men that patrolled the building moved in, circling like sharks that had scented blood. Callum was tossed to the ground, landing hard on his knees with a grunt.

“Don’t,” Thomas mumbled beside him. Harry realized he’d been tensing to move, ready to spring out and take on the guards that circled Emrys now, their submachine guns at the ready. “Wait and see.”

Thomas was right, of course. Even if he could kill a majority of the guards, all it would take would be a bullet in the wrong place. Emrys had no bespoke to protect him, and they would surely shoot to kill if Harry popped out without warning.

The man who’d had Emrys dragged in wasn’t Christian, but he apparently held sway with the bodyguards. They deferred to him, parting like a small sea when he stepped in between them. He was tall, well-groomed and with a heavy, dark gaze that swept across the fishery. Dressed plainly, but in well-made clothing, he wore naught but a long-sleeved white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, dark grey trousers, and polished shoes. His braces were interrupted by the straps of a shoulder holster that defined the lines of his shoulder blades. He had Callum’s Tokarev in his waistband, tucked there carelessly, a trophy from a disarmed foe.

He was built like a brick wall, with broad shoulders and a thick chest, his legs and his forearms corded with muscle like one would see on a man who chopped wood for a living.

The aura of menace around the man was almost palpable. While Harry knew that the Russian mercenaries were dangerous, they remained almost an afterthought. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced down former Spetznas or their employers.

This man, however…

This man was dangerous, in a way that screamed wrongness. Sometimes, in his line of work, Harry had come across men and women who were abhorrent on the worst levels. Child trafficking, sex slavery, people who got sick joy from hurting the people around them, friend or foe, beyond even reasonable methods of interrogation. Harry considered it his duty to stop them any way he knew how. This man bore all the attitude of the kind of man that Harry hated with every fiber of his being.

Harry saw he held the Rainmaker in his hand, hefting the weight of the weapon in his hand casually, tapping the body of the umbrella against his open palm. Harry grit his teeth. This was bad, even more so now that he’d seen Emrys’s face. Surely, he was having his own men keep tabs as well as Christian. He would know who Emrys was.

They were already blown. There was nothing to do now but try to outmaneuver their opponent. Hard to do with the most vulnerable of their team in the midst of a firing squad, but there had been worse missions. Thomas scowled next to him, and Harry was sure that Lancelot was thinking the same thing.

Harry swallowed, watching him walk a circle around his partner. Callum wisely kept his head down, tracking the man’s movements with his ears.

The dark man used the ferrule of the umbrella to tilt Callum’s head up, forcing the tech to look at him.

“Are you the one who’s been spying on me, then?” he asked. His voice was heavy, thick with a German accent. There wasn’t the careful enunciation of Christian’s English—this was utilitarian at best. He chewed the words, the pronunciation raw and unrefined.

“I don’t know what would give you that idea,” Callum said, chin lifting again as the man forced his head up. “I was out for a walk.”

“Yet you boarded a plane three days ago,” the man said. “Did you not?”

Callum said nothing.

“Maybe your little rat friends will be more talkative,” he said. Without warning, he flipped the Rainmaker in his hand and brought it around in a whistling arc, almost too fast to follow as the curved handle struck Callum across the face, knocking his spectacles off his face and sending them clattering away into the shadows. “Do you hear that, little rats?”

“Emrys is bait,” Lancelot warned. “We’re all dead if we let him get the upper hand.”

Harry was fair to seething, the blow to Callum’s face enough to have the tech groaning on the ground at the German’s feet. Harry could see the mark already beginning to swell on Callum’s jaw.

“We have to help him.” Harry frowned. “That umbrella’s core is titanium.”

Lancelot winced. “Hide the Tokarev, follow my lead.”

“Sir.” Harry slid the pistol in a gap in the wooden crates, wedging the gun in there nice and tight. “You have a plan?”

“Not much of one, but it might allow us time to regroup.” Lancelot’s jaw ticked. He didn’t like this any more than Harry did, that much was obvious. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” Harry said. “Do what you have to.”

“Good lad.”

“I’m waiting, little rats!” called the dark man. A swift kick to Callum’s ribs made him scream, and Harry winced, turning his head away from the sound. “I will break his ribs, and then his legs. Or maybe you have already fled, hm? Left him to die and you to try again.”

Thomas’s gaze narrowed, and he nodded at Harry.

Thomas rose, hands in the air. “That’s enough, now. Leave the boy alone.”

“Ah, there you are, little rat.” The man turned, lifting his brows in a genial expression, as though he were waiting on Thomas to show for tea. “Where is your friend?”

Harry rose to his feet, his hands also above his head.

“Good, good. See, I told you I would root them out.” The guards didn’t respond, but it seemed like the man didn’t much care. “Both of you, come out here, now. Keep your hands just like that.”

Thomas and Harry obeyed, stepping out from behind the crates, their hands above their heads. An imperious gesture from their new German foe sent four of the Spetznas forward, two with weapons trained on the two Knights as their counterparts patted them down. Harry’s knife was discovered and discarded, kicked into the shadows. Satisfied that there were no further weapons to be had (and thankfully missing both Bremonts on the Knights’ wrists and the blades hidden in the soles of their shoes), they nodded at the dark man.

“Take them upstairs,” he said. “I will be there shortly.”

“Good plan,” Harry said, but he meant it sincerely as he saw the guards also lift a groaning Emrys. The tech was bleeding from where the umbrella had struck his jaw, but he was alive, which was a sight better than he would have been if they’d stayed hidden.

Perhaps together, they could make another attempt.

“Trust me,” Lancelot said.

Harry did, letting the guards jam the muzzles of their guns into his ribs and prod him into moving back upstairs. While not ideal, it would allow them to gather what information they could on this new enemy, and also kept Emrys safe—for now.

Galahad found it was enough. It would have to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearing the end now. Soon enough we'll have our boys where they need to be. Thank you so much for taking this journey with me, and for being so patient.
> 
> Hopefully, this story lives up to the hype.
> 
> The Dark Man: [Peter Stormare](https://i.pinimg.com/736x/42/67/65/426765090414722534a4029b92578d2d--peter-otoole-beautiful-people.jpg)


	13. Turnabout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
>     
>     
>         _You hit me once
>     I hit you back
>     You gave a kick
>     I gave a slap
>     You smashed a plate over my head
>     Then I set fire to our bed_
>       

Callum was going to have a hell of a headache, he could already tell. The blow from the Rainmaker was enough to fell a horse, and considering that the umbrella’s barrel was titanium rather than the usual more malleable metals, having it crack across his jaw meant that he was having a shite day indeed. While not broken, his jaw had the dull ache of a bar brawl, and he’d be feeling the hit for at least a week, if the swelling was any indication. He’d knocked Emrys for a loop, and he shook his head as he was hauled into the upper office alongside his superiors.

He was thrown into a chair beside Galahad and Lancelot, the guards already tying the others’ hands behind their backs and securing them to the chairs.

Emrys waited until his own hands had been tied before he began. As soon as the guards stepped back to the door, confident they wouldn’t be able to escape, he began working the razor blade he’d sewn into his shirtsleeve’s cuff out of its secure pocket. It was sharp, but it would take a good ten minutes of sawing to get the ropes loose enough to snap. He felt the little blade drop into his palm and he carefully began maneuvering it toward the ropes binding his wrists.

A long shot, but worth it. Lancelot looked a little worse for wear, but he seemed to take being re-tied with a sense of stoic acceptance. It must be par for the course for the senior Knight at this point. For now, they needed to gather as much information as possible.

Harry caught his eye, and Callum nodded, just a slight dip of his chin. Galahad and Lancelot must have some sort of plan in place, otherwise why let themselves be captured? If nothing else, they could trust in Lancelot’s steady direction—though Emrys was hardly leaving his own freedom to chance.

Footsteps on the catwalk outside drew all their attention, and the men assigned to watch them snapped to attention as the man who’d dragged him inside stepped into the room, followed by Christian. Callum met Christian’s eyes evenly; the startled look he got was replaced by regret, then a sly smile.

_Look what you made me do._ Clear as day, written across Christian’s face.

Callum never did like being mocked. He sawed as fast as he could without drawing attention to himself.

The new man walked a slow pace, treading before all three of the men tied to their chairs. The boards creaked beneath his feet, an ominous sound as he walked back and forth in front of them. An unknown entity, save for his voice. Emrys knew that voice—he had been the lead the tech was so excited about. He was also prone to violence; the ache in his jaw was testament to that.

Apart from that, he was a wildcard. Emrys hated wild cards.

“Which one of you was it,” the man began, pointing the handle of the Rainmaker at each of them in turn, “that placed the bugs?”

He regarded Thomas, on the end, where the senior Knight sat easily in his chair despite having his hands bound behind him. A thoughtful look crossed his face, and he made a noise of dismissal.

“No, no, I remember you, you were the one trying to do the things the old-fashioned way,” he said. “You approached my man Anders with your prattle about looking to open new channels. You seem to have fallen in with these two, but…”

Thomas said nothing, but his faded denim gaze was harsh enough that Emrys thought he might draw blood. The dark man chuckled, as though this were a particularly funny joke. As soon as the noise started, however, it stopped.

Frowning, he shook his head, then turned and pointed the Rainmaker’s handle at Harry. “You…were the one looking for my lieutenant the entire time. Playing the limp-wristed rich boy, you thought it would draw him in. Not quite smart enough for it.”

Harry said nothing, though Callum was well-versed in Harry’s expressions by now to tell that his pride had been wounded. Galahad was stony-faced, however, focused on keeping a stiff upper lip in the face of the enemy. Callum was distracted by the polished wooden handle of his umbrella entering his line of sight, and he brought his eyes back up to the dark man.

“You,” he said. “You were smart enough to give Christian just enough rope to hang himself. He came to you, you didn’t seek him out. He let you get close and he paid the price for it.”

Christian’s eyes widened. “What—”

The dark man turned and belted Christian hard in the gut with a balled fist, a surprise blow that knocked the air from the German’s lungs and sent him to his knees, gasping as he tried to suck in air that wasn’t coming. It wasn’t the violence of it that shocked Callum, it was the _speed_ of it. This man moved like he was giving in to reptilian instinct rather than human reason, striking like a snake and then retracting almost in the blink of an eye.

This man was a terrible enemy—and they didn’t even know his name.

Christian made a horrible wheezing sound, toppling to his side. Callum winced, shaking his head. The dark man turned, wagging a finger in Callum’s face.

“You are smart, I think,” he said softly. “Those bugs were not like the ones I have seen before. Did you make them?”

Callum said nothing, preferring silence over a real answer. This didn’t seem to bother their captor, who continued on.

“Are you MI6? You seem young for this. Though I have seen much stranger things. Did they promise you wealth, if only you served your Queen and Country?” He gave a laugh that was humorless.

“Why work for the Russians?” Callum countered. Harry and Thomas both cut him a sharp look, but Callum set his jaw, not looking at the Knights. The man seemed set on playing ball with Callum, but not them.

Perhaps it was because they were both working class. There was a roughness to his words, not just in the way he spoke English but in the way he spat them at Thomas and Harry. His question seemed to throw their captor off guard for a moment. His mouth worked, his gaze narrowing as he stared Callum down.

“The Russians?” he asked, spitting the word. “I don’t work for the fucking Russians.”

Callum glanced at the guards that still stood beside the door.

“Them?” chuckled the man. “No, no. They’re Russian, but they could give a damn about their shit government. Their government threw them in chains. I broke them out of the gulags and gave them bread and clothes.”

The guards lifted their chins a bit, as though to acknowledge it.

“The Russians,” the man scoffed. “ _Fuck_ the Russians.”

Callum blinked.

“The Russians have done exactly shit for me and for my country,” he said, his voice tight with that dangerous note of anger. “They split up Berlin like a piece of pie, gorging themselves. The Americans are the same.”

_My god_ , Emrys thought. The realization was like a hammer-blow. If this man were playing both sides—and from the way he spoke, it was not only more than likely, it was the only probable answer—then he was more of a danger than previously thought. _He’s trying to escalate to make them destroy themselves._

Before their captor could get completely wound up and devolve into a screed about national pride, however, the phone on the desk rang. He reached out and picked it up, not taking his eyes off of Callum. It was a little unsettling, the dark eyes boring into Callum as he cradled the receiver between his ear and his shoulder.

“ _What is it?_ ” he asked in German. He was silent as he listened, closing his eyes as an irritated line formed between his brows. “ _Fine. I will be down shortly_.”

He sighed, almost regretfully. He set the Rainmaker down on the desk and snapped his fingers at Christian, who was still lying on the floor. His lieutenant lifted his head and rose to his feet on shaky legs.

“Watch them,” he said. “I will be back as soon as I’ve collected the shipment. And that one. Give him a job.”

He pointed to Callum before he strode from the room. The door guards remained where they were, and Christian dragged a chair over, turning it around and straddling it. It left them with even numbers, more or less. Two guards and Christian. Maybe, just maybe, they’d have a chance.

Christian smiled, almost leering at him.

_Things just keep going from bad to worse_ , Callum thought, and redoubled his sawing at his ropes.

* * *

Harry’s opinion of the day continued on its downslope as Christian settled himself across from Callum. While he didn’t say anything quite so horrid as ‘that belongs to me’ when the German reached out to touch the bruising on Callum’s face, he still ground his teeth.

Christian’s fingers played gently across the line of Callum’s jaw. Thankfully, the blow to his face hadn’t broken it, but the swelling would be bad, given time. There was something like sorrow in Christian’s face, though Harry had no doubt it was a farce. The good cop to their captor’s bad cop.

“I’m sorry he hurt you,” Christian said, frowning. “But you heard him—he wants to hire you.”

Callum tilted his head, listening. Christian gestured around them.

“There’s a lot of work to be had, and the pay is good. He was impressed with how small your bugs were. We found them, you know.”

“All five of them?” Callum said. “I’m impressed.”

“That’s even more amazing,” Christian said, his intense gaze making Harry want to kick him. Sadly, he was just out of reach, almost as if he’d planned it that way. Thomas’s gaze bored into the German, but Christian only had eyes for Emrys. “We only found two.”

“How good is the pay?” Callum asked.

“Better than they could pay you,” Christian replied. “And plenty of…side benefits.”

He let his dark green eyes travel up Callum’s form in a way that he clearly thought was seductive. Harry almost snorted, but Callum considered, the thoughtful look on his face making Harry’s jaw tick. Christian leaned forward, his eyes glittering under the overhead lamp.

“There’s no sense in remaining here,” Christian said. “You’d be free. Come with me.”

“A tempting offer,” Callum said. “Where do I sign?”

Christian leered at him. “Why not seal it with a kiss?”

“Hmm. Go on, then.” Emrys leaned back, submissive, his legs sprawling open and baring his neck to Christian. Emrys bit his lip in a way that Harry had found enticing when it was for him. Now, it was directed at the man in front of him. Harry felt bile rise in the back of his throat, unable to tear his gaze away.

Christian shot Harry a smugly triumphant look as he rose, moving to lean over Callum, bending down to press his lips to the tech’s. Was this really how it ended? The knot in Harry’s chest snarled, tangling together in black rage and despair as—

Callum snapped his head up and into Christian’s nose. His bonds fell away, shredded as he reached up to push his captor into the guards at the door as the German cursed, blood flowing from both nostrils. The guards brought up their guns but Emrys was faster, reaching the desk with the Rainmaker on it and rolling back in front of Harry and Thomas.

“Duck, please,” he said, popping open the umbrella.

The _braaaaat_ of gunfire filled the room as Harry ducked his head. He could hear the shots pinging off the webbing strung between the arms of the umbrella, but when he looked, he could see the webbing pocked with the bullets and then springing back into shape as the fabric deflected the shots harmlessly away. Emrys pulled a trigger, and there was an explosion.

The shotgun blast caught both guards in the chest, sending them to the floor. Harry blinked, staring at Emrys.

“Oh, excellent, that worked,” the tech said, breathing out a sigh of apparent relief.

“Please don’t tell me you weren’t sure,” Harry said.

“I—”

“No, Emrys,” Harry said primly. “Don’t tell me.”

He finished squirming from his ropes, popping his thumb back into place. Thomas was in much the same boat, looking at Emrys speculatively as he undid his ropes. Emrys was already moving, kicking Christian’s hand away from where the lieutenant was reaching for one of the submachine guns. Another swift kick to Christian’s sternum made him reconsider fighting the three of them. Emrys pointed the ferrule of the Rainmaker at Christian’s chest, and he subsided totally.

“Good work,” Lancelot said. He rose, grabbing a discarded MP5K and checking the magazine. Harry checked the other before they both turned to Christian, the German’s hands over his nose as he tried to stem the bleeding. “Now, I do believe you owe us at least a name.”

“No,” Christian grated out. Thomas laid out one of his hands flat on the floor, and rammed the butt of the submachine gun against his index finger. There was a sickening crunch, and Christian would have yelled had Thomas not stuffed his hand over the man’s mouth.

“A name.”

“Go to hell.” Christian’s face was sheened with sweat, a litany of German curses spilling forth. Thomas shook his head, lips wrinkling back from his teeth as he lifted the weapon again.

_Crack_. Thomas brought the gun down on a second finger. Harry didn’t flinch, but he caught the look that Emrys sent his way. The brutality of their work often conflicted with the gentlemanly persona that Kingsman donned like a suit.

The modern gentleman’s armor.

“Klaus.” Christian panted, his eyes flickering between the three of them. “Klaus Schröder.”

“Are those the warheads he’s receiving?” Thomas asked. There was a pause, where Christian’s eyes flickered to where Emrys was standing, the tech’s eyes stern. A curious expression flickered over his face, but then it disappeared.

Harry wondered what it was like, meeting someone like Callum Craig, only to be on the wrong side. He hoped he never had to find out. He looked up, meeting Emrys’s gaze. They frowned, returning their eyes to their captive.

Christian nodded at last, and Thomas reached over, pulling a combat knife from the boot of a fallen bodyguard. “I’m afraid my side of things doesn’t allow for turncoats, but I can at least afford some mercy. And save the bullet.”

“Do it, then,” Christian rasped. He lifted his head, exposing his neck. “I don’t regret it.”

Harry did look away, then, watching Emrys do the same. Thomas made sure it was humane, at least. A quick jerk of his shoulder, and Christian lay quiet after exhaling in a soft sigh. Lancelot rolled the body over, leaving him face down on the floor after wiping his hands on Christian’s trouser leg. Harry swallowed hard and moved for the door.

“They know we’re free,” Thomas said. “They’ll have heard the gunfire.”

He held out a pistol to Emrys, likely pulled from Christian’s belt, the butt held toward the tech for him to take it.

“Sir?” Callum looked concerned, as to why Thomas wasn’t keeping it for himself as a backup, or giving it to Galahad.

“Combat situation,” Thomas said simply. “Gear up.”

“Sir.” Emrys took the pistol, checking the magazine and familiarizing himself with it before collapsing the Rainmaker and holding it in his other hand. “We’ll need to get down to the dock. It’s likely that since he’s heard the gunfire, he’s going to run hell for leather and we’ll miss our chance to get him and the weapons if we don’t.”

“I expect you’re right,” Thomas said. “How much more damage can your umbrella take?”

“Another frontal assault like that, perhaps,” Callum replied. “If we split off, I can draw their attention. I have one more trick.”

“As you like,” Thomas said. “Break left. Galahad and I will break right and attempt to commandeer a boat.”

“Yes, sir,” Emrys said.

“Good luck, Emrys,” Thomas said. He reached out, squeezing the young tech’s shoulder with a nod. “It’s been an honor, and a privilege.”

It was then that Harry realized—Thomas didn’t necessarily see a way out for any of them. Had Thomas just gotten them captured so that Emrys wouldn’t be alone in his final moments?

They were locked in a warehouse room, above a floor crawling with foes, armed with submachine guns. Limited ammunition, limited time…it was more than just a difficult situation. Thomas had gotten them recaptured, simply for another swing at their enemy. Like a dog locked on with its jaws, the only way for Thomas to let this go was success…or death.

They were expected to complete their mission, whatever the cost. The price for failure was far too high; far too many people would suffer if they couldn’t complete their task.

Thomas would fight until the end, Harry knew. He would rail against their enemies until the last of his breath left him. When Harry had signed on to be a Kingsman, he’d taken the same oath with all the seriousness that a boy of twenty-two could muster. Callum had likely taken the same oath, or one very similar.

_We all knew the risks, until we landed in the fox hole._

Harry didn’t quite know how to feel about that. He pushed it away, packed it down for a drink once he got out of here—because he would get out of here—

He looked over at Emrys.

There was a brief moment where he forgot Thomas was there, the world narrowing to himself and Callum. Gone was the softness of their youth, the years stretching out before them, and as Callum looked up, Harry got a flash of those hazel eyes looking at him the same way ten, twenty, thirty years from now. He found he wanted that. The steady reassurance, the confidence in both of their skill and their abilities.

Harry wanted to reach out, to reassure, to tug Callum close and claim his mouth in an affirmation that yes, they were here; yes, they were alive—and they would continue to live, simply because of who they were. They were Kingsman, and they were the best.

Emrys met Galahad’s gaze, the same unspoken feelings hidden in his expression.

“Be careful,” Harry said. It was all he could say, all he could articulate in this moment. Harry felt the air leave him in anticipation, and he inhaled, the acrid stink of firearm discharge cementing this in his memory, making his chest feel heavy, weighted. He wasn’t aware of anything but the long moment between them, broken suddenly as one would burst a soap bubble. Time resumed its swift course, sweeping them along for the ride, prepared or not.

“Of course,” Callum said, his grin fierce. “See you on the other side.”

Callum opened the door and stepped out into a hail of gunfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more. Then we're completely done. We're sliding down that slope to the end, Constant Readers. I hope you're enjoying! I should be done with the last chapter here shortly. Expect it soon.


	14. King's Gambit Accepted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> __
>     
>     
>         _You were the song stuck in my head
>     Every song I’ve ever loved
>     Played again and again and again_
>       

Callum’s world was fire and the stink of hot metal. He used the Rainmaker for cover, the umbrella deflecting the storm of gunfire as he ran along the metal catwalk, sparks flying where a stray shot skipped across the galvanized steel grating at his feet. He swore, dancing out of the way, and fired a shot with his pistol.

Through the smoke, he could see Harry and Thomas darting the other way. They hadn’t been spotted yet, but he had no doubt that could change in an instant, and he resolved to keep their attention.

“That’s right,” he muttered to himself, running to the end of the catwalk, close to where the doors would open to let the boats in and out. “Look at me, you bastards. Here I am.”

He fired several shots, keeping the Russians riveted as they returned fire with the belching enthusiasm that was signature for a submachine gun. He could feel his hands vibrating with the force of the bullets he was deflecting, and he knew the Rainmaker was almost at her end.

An excellent field test all told, he consoled himself. He still had one last thing up his sleeve, however.

He’d seen the ropes that dangled, a crisscrossing network of old net rigging, and he had a plan. A half-formed, cracked in the head idea, but it was better than the nothing they had. Thomas and Harry had reached the ground, and soon the Russians realized their error in following the distraction.

The two Knights moved as one, predators dropped into a thrashing pen full of targets. Harry’s movements flowed smoothly with Thomas’s, the younger Knight decking a bigger Russian and flipping him over his back, confident that Thomas would finish him as they cut through the bodyguards. Their shots weren’t the wild full-auto that the Russians employed, each shot intending to either incapacitate or outright kill. Controlled bursts of fire until the magazines were empty, then one would cover the other as they swapped weapons, using the submachine guns against their owners.

The fishery floor was chaos as Harry and Thomas worked forward toward the speed boats. The crates proved both a blessing and a detriment as they provided cover for both sides. The sound of splintering wood filled the air as one side or another would open fire.

Klaus’s head snapped from where Emrys was on the catwalk, taking in the new threat with a flash of disconcertingly white teeth. At this distance, Callum couldn’t tell if he were smiling or baring his teeth like an animal.

Perhaps a bit of both.

He snapped at the four men loading the long boxes into a speed boat to hurry. Packed as lightly as they dared, there had to be their missing warheads. Merlin swallowed. The gunfire might not set them off but who knows what sort of shoddy trigger the Russians had slapped on those missiles.

The boats were just big enough to accommodate them and two riders, and Schröder had already moved to take the helm. Harry and Thomas were tied up with the firefight on the dock. Callum took careful aim with his pistol, catching one of the loaders in the shoulder. He spun to the side, howling, and the whole boat pitched and yawed, rocking on its moorings.

Schröder’s gaze returned to Callum, dark and full of the promise of pain.

“I’m not letting you leave, you bastard,” Callum snarled as he climbed up on the railing of the catwalk. “I _owe_ you.”

He reached up, taking hold of some of the rigging suspended from the ceiling, and swung outward with the Rainmaker tucked under his arm; he gained momentum kicking off the catwalk and firing a shot at the pulley that tied off the netting. It sparked, wildly, and his descent was erratic as he aimed with both feet towards Schröder.

The dark man grinned, stepping to the side as Emrys swung in.

It was foolish, Emrys realized in hindsight. Funny how that worked, while he was in midair. Though it was a move reminiscent of Errol Flynn, an action star he was not. He was swinging wildly through the air, unable to change targets, and now he had nothing to slow his descent.

Emrys missed, landing a kick full force into the chest of one of the loaders as he overshot the speedboat and rolled, crashing heavily to the wood of the dock. He felt the air leave him but managed to suck in a thin breath as he struggled to his feet. He put a round in the man directly in front of him, catching him in the chest and sending him to the ground. The one he’d kicked was rising, and Emrys shot him as well, putting two rounds in his side and dumping him into the water. Emrys lost his hold on the pistol in the struggle, and he swore as it was torn from his grip, only to disappear into the dark water.

He scooped up the Rainmaker, looking about him for more threats.

Schröder was laughing, firing stray shots into the crates where Harry and Thomas had last been. The gun clicked as the dark man fired it to empty, and he turned to the boat now that the loading was completed, the crates tied down behind him. The engine of his boat started with a roar, and Emrys turned, just in time to see Schröder offer him a salute with the empty gun before pitching it at his head.

Emrys ducked and broke out into a sprint, running down the dock and leaping onto the speedboat just as Schröder took off into the night. He heard Harry shouting at him, but it was background noise to the thud of his heart and the roar of the engine as he landed hard on the back of the boat.

* * *

“That bloody idiot,” Harry swore. Thomas glanced over at him, and Harry fired another shot as he cleared the last of the Russians from the dock. The second boat had survived the fracas with a couple of minor holes, but they were above water and the craft still looked seaworthy.

Harry and Thomas made a break for it, gathering more magazines for their weapons as they went. Harry managed to get the little boat started as Thomas covered him, and they took off after Schröder, salt spray kicking through their hair as they sped off into the night.

The moon was clear and full, and that helped as Harry followed in the wake of the other boat. It was veering erratically through the water, as though the man at the helm wasn’t able to control the boat. It made sense, considering there was an angry and very inventive Scot aboard.

Thomas took the helm, and Harry began reloading their weapons, skilled fingers snapping rounds into the magazines. All told, they had two full magazines and one that Harry split in half. Enough to finish this, perhaps.

He glanced up as they closed the gap with the boat heading out to sea, though it was too far away for Harry to be able to tell if the figures in the boat were struggling or even who had the upper hand. Fear clawed up into his chest, taking hold of him with icy fingers as the boat veered again to starboard, forcing Thomas to correct his course.

“What the _devil_ —” Thomas jerked the wheel sideways, sending them spinning to port as a gout of flame erupted from the front of the speedboat. It shot into the air close to thirty meters, lighting the darkness with a belch of white hot light. The flames licked, then caught, the one standing at the helm. A shrill, pained scream cut through the night, and Harry and Thomas could only watch, unsure if it was Emrys or Schröder.

The flaming figure flailed in the boat for a moment before the other kicked him off into the water.

“ _Emrys_!” Harry’s voice was hoarse as he called out, realizing that whoever was in the boat, friend or foe, wouldn’t be able to hear him at this distance.

Harry was on his feet and moving before Thomas could stop him. He arced off the boat and into the water, an explosive breast-stroke bringing him level with the speedboat within moments. He hauled himself aboard, dripping wet, only to find Emrys laying in the front of the boat, shaking.

“Callum.” He moved forward, kneeling beside the tech. He realized that Callum wasn’t hurt or in shock—

The mad bastard was **_laughing_**.

“Did you see that?” he wheezed, his eyes screwed tight as he gave a thin chuckle. His ribs had to be bruised, perhaps broken, with the shallow breaths he was taking. “That was _fucking spectacular_!”

Harry sat back on his heels, lost for words. He had nothing to say, really, other than the fact that Emrys was unhurt was a weight so far off his mind he felt justified in cupping the grinning idiot’s face in his hands and kissing the rest of the breath out of him.

He loved this man. He realized it then, the salt in the air making Callum taste even sweeter, heightening the way that the tech opened his mouth to Harry, one hand going up into Harry’s hair even as the other held the still-smoking Rainmaker.

He only broke away when Thomas cleared his throat. The older Knight looked at them both with a mixture of exasperation and relief, and he strapped the two boats together so that one wouldn’t float away while they assessed their cargo and their injured companion.

“I told you I had a final trick,” Emrys said, grinning at Lancelot.

“So you did,” Thomas said. “A brave, albeit stupid maneuver. How bad is it?”

“Bruised ribs,” Callum replied. “Stabbed in the thigh, though I think he broke off the blade. Pen knife. Mean bastard, that.”

“Mm.” Thomas looked overboard. “Where is he?”

Harry peered over the other edge. “Gone. Dead?”

“Will be, with those injuries if he isn’t already,” Thomas said. “Lit on fire isn’t fun even without the addition of sea salt. He won’t make it far. We’ve secured the cargo, I still think we can call this mission a rousing success.”

“Ta, Emrys,” Harry said, grinning at the tech.

“All that’s left is to see to cleanup. The police will likely have been called to the fishery, and we’ll need to secure these crates elsewhere for Black Ops to pick up,” Thomas continued. “You two should go home and rest while I see to that.”

“Mum will have your head,” Harry said, frowning. “You were concussed.”

“I’m fine,” Thomas said. “Emrys is the far worse off of the two of us.”

“And yet, here I am, the virile young buck,” Harry countered. “I’m taking you both home and I’ll see to the warheads’ safe delivery.”

Thomas’s face was impossible to read with his back to the moonlight, but Harry let out a breath when the older Knight shrugged.

“As you like it, Galahad. I leave cleanup to you.”

“Thank you, Lancelot. I’ll do my utmost.”

“Of course you will.” Lancelot sighed. He helped get Callum seated and comfortable in the boat without its deadly cargo, and Thomas set off, untying from the speed boat and carting himself and Emrys back to shore.

Harry took the helm of the other boat, turning it towards the beaches of Barcelona. All and all, a nice night to go sailing, he thought, humming to himself as he looked for a place to land ashore.

* * *

**[One Week Later]**

The jet was loaded, and Harry had just checked them out of their apartment. He was almost sad to see the little place go, but he knew that the memories would be nice. His last sight of Barcelona would be the sun shining, crowds of people wandering through Cathedral Square, and the smell of street vendors selling spicy pulled pork.

It felt good to be alive.

The mission was a complete success, and they now had clearance to return home. He needed a new tabloid cover as well, he realized. He would have to send out for this one as a back issue.

Schröder’s body had never been found, but they hadn’t been able to do the sweep they would have liked. The police had crawled over the beaches for days, trying to sort out the mess on the docks, but the three of them remained anonymous. They’d gotten incredibly lucky, all told.

Black Ops had retrieved the warheads, and they’d gone into deep storage. Kingsman did not condone the use of nuclear weaponry, preferring traditional methods to wiping a town off the map, and Emrys was in talks with Merlin as to what, exactly, they should do with the warheads and the nuclear materiel found within.

His partner was on the mend, and would make a full recovery. Emrys’s ribs were just bruised, thankfully. It had been too dark and Schröder had been too concerned with making his escape with the warheads intact to do much more than fight Callum off when he attempted to take the wheel. Emrys had resorted to the Rainmaker when Schröder pulled a flare gun from the captain’s console and had tried to fire it at him.

A desperate play from a desperate man, and Harry was happy to put the whole mess behind him.

Harry was looking forward to seeing the Rainmaker placed into the regular rotation. By all accounts, it had been a complete success in the field trials, though you wouldn’t know it to see the poor battered thing clutched in Callum’s hands. The prototype wasn’t destroyed, just misshapen and the webbing torn, but Callum was already drawing up new plans for it, ready to improve on its features.

Once he was totally healed, of course.

A messy business, to be sure, but Callum would be fussed over by Morgana as soon as they landed, and he didn’t seem all the worse for wear. Having Harry there to dote on him might have lessened the sting of the enforced bed rest.

Now, however, their arrangement had come to an end. There would be no more of the openly affectionate touches that Callum laid on his arm when he was speaking. No more of him threading his fingers through Harry’s head while he worked on paperwork.

That was all over now. He would have to endure the separation as one did with a slowly healing wound. Seeing Emrys constantly at the shop and at the estate would only remind him of what they’d had.

He wondered if Emrys felt the same.

It was with a sense of loss that Harry strode toward the plane. He was giving up something important, he felt. Was this how grief worked in relationships? This ever-present longing for something right in front of you? He had no idea, having no marker to compare it to.

Harry slowed, his face carefully neutral as he realized Thomas was waiting for him outside the hangar. His mentor turned at the sound of Harry’s footsteps, long ago able to identify his protégé’s long-legged stride.

“Emrys?” Harry asked.

His mentor lifted his brows, eyes the color of faded denim searching Harry’s face for a moment before he spoke.

“He’s already aboard. I was hoping to have a word, Galahad. Walk with me?”

While phrased as a question, it wasn’t a request. Harry hesitated, then inclined his head, walking with Thomas a little way from the jet. Thomas lit his pipe, the scent of his tobacco wafting over Harry as they strolled.

“What’s this about?” Harry asked.

“I think you know,” Thomas replied. “I am an old man, Galahad, but I’m hardly stupid and unwise to the ways of the world.”

Harry felt a flush crawl up the back of his neck, touching his ears. “I didn’t—”

“I know you didn’t,” Thomas said. “But all the same, it happened. My question to you now is: what are you prepared to do about it?”

“Do about it?” Harry asked, glancing toward the plane. “We both owe Emrys our lives, I wouldn’t—”

“Think, boy,” Thomas snapped, irritation lacing his words with more venom than he probably intended. “I’m not asking you to neutralize him. I’m asking you what you intend to do about the situation. Are you prepared to leave it here and to go back to Kingsman as though nothing happened?”

Harry froze, casting his eyes back at Thomas. He was offering to keep Harry’s secret. He wanted to be able to trust Thomas with this, as he trusted him with all the ones before, but…

The fishery had changed things, somehow. Knowing that Thomas hadn’t expected them to get out, but had fed each of them to the wolves regardless, just to get another chance at Schröder. Something about it smacked of how Arthur did things.

It was a statement of how _Kingsman_ did things.

It didn’t sit right with Harry, who’d gone back for Thomas instead of leaving him in captivity. Thomas watched him, his face a bland, neutral mask. Harry realized he might be taking too long to answer as he struggled to come to terms with how things had to be.

“It’s over,” Harry said. “We’ve…gotten it out of our systems.”

Thomas lifted a brow, a frown appearing at the corners of his mouth. It was clear his mentor didn’t believe him, and considering how flippant Harry had been about it in the past, he understood why.

It hurt, but he understood. They lied for a living—both to themselves and others. Of course Thomas would take anything he said with a grain of salt; it was how Harry should have approached the Game from the first.

Including what Thomas told him.

“I swear it,” Harry said. He shoved his hands in his pockets, his gaze sliding away from Thomas and out to the runway, watching a commercial airliner taxi and take off. “There can’t be anything more, you said it yourself.”

“Keep telling yourself that, Galahad,” Thomas said. “It will keep you alive.”

Thomas squeezed Harry’s shoulder, and they turned for the jet that would take them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merlin, you daft bastard. See also: the real reason Merlin doesn't tell the Barcelona story. He would lose ALL credibility for demanding agents do something safely. That said, here it is.
> 
> The end.
> 
> ...mostly. One more chapter.


	15. Bon Dia!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> __
>     
>     
>         _Come let me love you
>     Let me give my life to you
>     Let me drown in your laughter
>     Let me die in your arms
>     Let me lay down beside you
>     Let me always be with you
>     Come let me love you
>     Come love me again_
>       

**[London, England – 1983]**

Thomas Brampton strode into the shop with a mission. He ignored the front desk and the minder’s call to wait, Arthur wasn’t seeing anyone at just this moment. He made his way down the hall to the well-appointed office of Chester King, their spymaster.

Chester didn’t seem terribly surprised that Thomas had come to see him, merely looking bored over the newspaper he was currently skimming as Thomas opened the door and stepped inside. Thomas shut the door behind himself, knowing that the soundproofing would keep this encounter between the two of them.

“Lancelot,” Chester said, curt acknowledgement his only greeting. “Not like you to come bulling into people’s business.”

“No,” Thomas agreed. “But it is your particular pedigree. May I speak freely?”

“You’re going to say your piece whether I approve or not, so go on, then,” Chester said, pulling his reading spectacles off and setting them to the side.

“What, exactly, was that?” Thomas demanded. “You expect me to believe that a petty arms dealer like Klaus Schröder knew we were coming?”

There was a dangerous moment where Thomas prepared for a physical assault; Arthur seemed to gather himself like he was prepared to spring over the desk and take Thomas to task, but instead, the spymaster set his paper deliberately to the side, folding his hands on his desk blotter.

“What are you accusing me of, Lancelot?” he asked.

“The same thing that got Bors killed in ’81,” Thomas said in a low tone. “You’re playing chess master with human lives, Chester—”

“Arthur,” Chester said, the word barked with authority. Thomas ground his jaw. If he was angry before, he was livid now, faded blue eyes snapping with rage. “And that is my duty, Lancelot. I move pieces as I see fit. I must keep two steps ahead of not only Washington, but the Kremlin—”

“Is that why you contacted Figures?” Lancelot said. Chester fell silent, but his silence was telling. Sir Colin Figures, the SIS chief, was a known friend of Chester, who often mined him for information. “You’re hardly the only one with connections, Chester.”

“Rumors prove nothing,” Chester pointed out.

“No, but the meeting you had with him two months before outlining the mission proves plenty,” Thomas countered. “Remember, in the Great Game appearances are ninety percent. How will the Knights react knowing that you offered us up on a platter for the KGB to take, in order to out the Americans who were funding Schröder?”

“He was playing both sides,” Chester said. “He knew the risks, and so do you.”

“As do you—far better than most.” Thomas reined in his considerable temper, speaking calmly now. “Which is why you would never tie yourself too closely to the plan. You set us up to take a fall, but if we were to succeed, you would come out smelling like a rose.”

“And what, exactly, will you do with this information?”

“Nothing, as of yet,” Thomas said. “But you should be aware that your machinations won’t work with everyone. And when it fails, I’ll be right there to string you up and watch you swing.”

There was a long moment, tense silence drawn taut like a bowstring. The bubble burst as Chester inhaled, his face mottling purple in his rage.

“Get out of my office,” Chester snarled.

“Ta, Gawain,” Thomas said, tossing Chester’s old title over his shoulder as he exited. “Something to keep in mind.”

* * *

**[Barcelona, Spain – Present Day]**

Harry shouldered open the door, allowing the bellhop to bring their bags inside. He slid a tip into the young man’s hand, instructing him to send a bottle of champagne down later.

Much later.

Right now, he was aching for a nap and a chance to hold Merlin. He was jet-lagged, the hop from the UK to Spain was on the tail end of a long flight back from Kentucky, where the rest of the Kingsman were gearing up for their move to Scotland. Harry and Merlin had already gone over the plans, given signatures where needed, and had left instructions to be carried out.

It didn’t hurt that they’d left Morgana in charge. She’d whip them into shape while Arthur and his wizard took a much-needed holiday.

A month in Spain, Barcelona to be precise. A gift from James, who’d pressed the tickets and reservations into Harry’s hands with a signature James Spencer grin, as well as an attempt to extract the original story from Harry.

Harry wasn’t about to divulge all his secrets, no matter how James pried. But the gift was heartfelt, as all of James’s gestures, despite being grandiose. Harry had made a call ahead, paying a little extra to change their room to the apartment on the ground floor, the same one they’d shared so long ago in 1983.

That was his own little gift. To himself, and to Merlin.

It was fitting, Harry felt. To return here, so many years later, to the place where it all began. Normally not one to dwell on such things, Harry allowed it for himself now. There was a sense of tabula rasa, placing the years of struggle between the two of them to quantify and qualify what they were to each other into the past, where it belonged. Now that they had embarked into uncharted waters, some place that Arthur had never dared tread, much less Merlin…

Harry felt that returning to the place where he fell in love with Merlin was a fitting start for embarking on the rest of their lives together.

The room had been renovated, but not by much. The duvet and decorations were changed, but the layout remained the same. The kitchen still overlooked the street that connected to Cathedral Square, and the back garden was still tiny, but lush with small green plants. Harry could smell the sea from the cracked open windows. The closet still contained a camp bed, and Harry set his suitcase on top of it.

They wouldn’t be needing it this time, after all.

He held the door open for Merlin, who wheeled himself in with a satisfied look on his face.

“It’s almost as I remember,” he said, looking about them. “They’ve painted, and changed the draperies, but it’s almost the same.”

Harry chuckled. “I’m surprised you noticed the draperies back then.”

“There were periods of time I wasn’t…otherwise occupied, Harry.” Merlin smirked at him, sending a course of heat through Harry, from his scalp to his toes, pooling in his gut. Even now—almost forty years later—that the man beside him could do that to him with just a look, well…

Harry counted himself very lucky indeed.

The heat wasn’t all internal, however. Harry could feel how stuffy the room was, and he frowned.

“Did they really not fix the aircon?” he muttered, shucking his coat and rolling up his shirt-sleeves. The windows being open alerted him to it, and he closed them to check. The little unit didn’t even sputter, it just remained dark.

“Likely another blown fuse,” Merlin said, making to rise from his wheelchair. “I can right that here shortly.”

“No, no, Dove, don’t get up,” Harry said. He brushed a kiss across the top of Merlin’s head as he passed. “I can change a fuse.”

“Mm,” Merlin said, swatting at him gently. “Well, I suppose I did promise to love and honor my husband, even when he’s being overprotective about my standing for too long.”

_My husband._ The phrase did something to Harry, making his heart thud painfully against his ribs as the word rattled about in his brain. A sense of reality descending, a weight that settled itself across him like the most familiar blanket…yet still alien, forcing him to step back and grasp it with both hands to remind himself that he was, indeed, married to Merlin.

At last.

Harry stopped, turning to face Merlin. A whole host of emotion was coursing through him, something he couldn’t quite articulate, but Merlin seemed to sense that he’d done something. He frowned, wetting his lips as he met Harry’s gaze.

“What is it?”

“I do believe that’s the first time you’ve referred to me as your husband aloud, that’s all,” Harry said, moving closer and taking a knee beside Merlin’s chair. “I…”

“I know,” Merlin said, swallowing hard. “It took quite a bit for us to get here, didn’t it?”

“Nearly forty years,” Harry said. “I’m surprised you’ve put up with me for that long.”

Merlin snorted. “As if I would let you get away, you daft bastard. You needed the constant minding.”

“Excuses,” Harry said, his voice immeasurably fond as he looked up at Merlin. His wizard simply reached out, cupping his jaw. Harry leaned into the warm press of Merlin’s palm, closing his eye. “I am a very lucky man.”

“That you are,” Merlin said, his tone smug. Harry peered up at him, just as Merlin rose and moved past him, the miniature hydraulics in his prosthesis humming as he stepped around Harry. “Now. Let me fix the aircon, unless you’d like a repeat of Barcelona in ’83. I do remember you being quite happy in the buff. To be fair, I was happy you were so comfortable being naked, too.”

“Cheeky,” Harry muttered, standing. Since Merlin was insisting on pre-empting him there, he got to work unpacking their wardrobes. Though, now that Merlin mentioned it…

By the time Merlin emerged from the back garden, the air conditioner was humming again, blowing chilled air into the room. It was much less stuffy now, and Harry had unpacked their garments, putting things away. He’d also made himself quite comfortable, stripping to a pair of loose pants and a t-shirt and reclining on the bed, thumbing through the novel he’d packed with his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle.

He looked up as Merlin slid the door shut and turned.

“I see you’ve already adapted,” Merlin said, though his smile was playful.

“Of course.” Harry beamed at him. “And no fussing with the camp bed this time.”

“Would never dream of it,” Merlin said. He removed his coat, hanging it in the closet beside Harry’s, fingers moving to undo the buttons on his shirt. Harry rose, moving to help him.

Well, as much as kissing the back of Merlin’s neck was helping. Still, they’d waited long enough.

“It’s amazing,” Harry murmured, pressing his lips to Merlin’s neck, his fingers tugging away his husband’s collar. “I can see you every single day, and yet still be so amazed that you agreed to spend the rest of your life with me.”

“Harry,” Merlin sighed, the shaky exhale making Harry smile against the back of Merlin’s neck. He took over, stepping closer behind Merlin, bringing them flush and sliding his hands slowly across Merlin’s torso.

“I am, you know.” He kissed him again, making soft conversation as he helped his husband get more comfortable. His fingers trailed across Merlin’s waistcoat, undoing buttons with little flicks of his fingers; there was no hurry here. This was time for them, at last. No pressing missions, no more hurried meetings.

No more **_hiding_**.

Harry slid Merlin’s waistcoat off, sliding his hands beneath the shirttails he’d already tugged free as he slowly nuzzled Merlin from behind.

“I love everything about you,” Harry said. Merlin swayed back against him, the quickening of his breath only prompting Harry to slow down, to savor. “Always have. How handsome a figure you cut wearing anything you choose. Those long legs. Your hands, especially when they’re on me. The way you look at me when I say your name. The way you scold me when I’m taking a risk. The way you’ve said my name in hundreds of different ways over the years. The dogged determination. The brilliance. The caring. You are my rudder and my compass.”

Merlin sighed, his back pressed against Harry’s chest as the spymaster let his hands roam. He pressed his lips to Merlin’s neck, watching his pulse jump.

“You know I feel the same about you,” Merlin said softly. “I love you, Harry Hart. All of you. For all the times you’ve made me want to yank my hair out by the roots, there are a dozen other times I want to kiss you silly.”

Harry chuckled. “I know I’m not an easy man to love.”

“That’s just it,” Merlin said, inhaling sharply as Harry trailed his lips against his shoulder, his fingers tugging Merlin’s collar away. “That was the easiest thing I’ve ever done in my life. Loving you is like breathing.”

“ _Tu es l’amour de ma vie_ ,” Harry murmured, nibbling gently at Merlin’s ear. “ _Let me keep you._ ”

“I’ve been yours since 1983, you silly git,” Merlin rumbled, his voice thick and his hands shaking as he covered Harry’s with his own. He turned, cupping Harry’s face. Harry kissed his husband, his hands sliding to Merlin’s hips as they broke apart, the heat between them dissipating as quick as it had come, replaced with a softness that was nicer still. “I’ve never wanted anyone else.”

“Good,” Harry said, nuzzling Merlin’s jaw. “Because I’ve always wanted to do this.”

He slid his hands up Merlin’s sides, settling his husband against him as he pulled him close. He started to hum, leading Merlin in a slow dance, just the two of them.

Merlin seemed to realize what Harry was doing and he squeezed Harry’s hand. “If I step on your toes in these, they’ll break.”

“Mm,” Harry said, swaying with Merlin. “Then I’ll bear it.”

“Harry.” Merlin’s exasperation seemed forced now, and Harry grinned. “I’d rather not explain to the emergency room staff that I broke my husband’s foot because he’s a sentimental fool.”

“Say it again,” Harry said, nuzzling Merlin’s jaw. There wasn’t much movement, just an awkward sway, but it was enough for Harry.

“Harry Hart, you are ridiculous.” Merlin rumbled the words against the shell of Harry’s ear. “But you’re _my_ ridiculous husband, and so I suppose I should indulge you. Just this once.”

“Well, it is our honeymoon,” Harry agreed. “So, I suppose, Mister _Hart_ , that you’re not one for indulging me?”

Merlin snorted. “Depends on what you’re asking. I did agree to marry you. That’s quite the indulgence.”

Harry just hummed softly, his tune a little off as he did. It was a song he didn’t know by heart, not until recently, but it was one that Merlin did. He heard Merlin’s breath catch, and he simply continued.

“You fill up my senses,” Harry half-sang, half-murmured. “Like a night in the forest. Like the mountains in springtime. Like a walk in the rain…”

“I thought you loathed John Denver,” Merlin said. His voice was thick, as though he were holding back something, and Harry lifted his head to see hazel eyes fixed on his face. Merlin’s throat worked as he swallowed, rendering him vulnerable in ways Harry was grateful he was the one to see. Harry just shrugged, pressing his lips to Merlin’s knuckles.

“He’s starting to grow on me,” Harry admitted. “Much like a Scottish tech did. A long time ago. I figured out quickly that he was _fucking spectacular_ , and I told myself then that I wasn’t ever going to meet anyone as compelling as this boy from Glasgow.”

“And don’t you forget it,” Merlin said. Harry went as he was tugged, Merlin’s hands wound in his t-shirt just putting him exactly where he wanted to be as they melted together in a kiss that might have rivaled the one in the alleyway so long ago.

To be fair, it _was_ a long time ago, Harry thought as they broke apart. Merlin was looking particularly fine, his mouth swollen from Harry’s kisses and his eyes half-lidded and lazy. Perhaps he could convince Merlin to recreate it…for comparison’s sake.

Merlin did love a good experiment, after all.

* * *

 

_Bon Dia from Barcelona!_

_1983-2018_

_~_

_For Bearfeathers_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a wild ride. Here you have it, Constant Readers.
> 
> Barcelona in its entirety.
> 
> I'm actually pretty emotional writing this. It's a rarity for me to finish a story, and to do so with such a clarity of purpose, well...
> 
> I want to thank you for taking this journey with me, and I'm sorry if the reality doesn't...mesh well with what you imagined. I was always afraid, putting this down in words, that it would never live up to expectations. The love I have gotten, not only for this but for Thomas and Morgana, have really assuaged that fear, but it still lingers. Harry and Merlin's story begins in 1983, but it hasn't ended yet -- please keep an eye on [Photographs and Memories](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12165312/chapters/27610590), as well as [As Heavy as a History Book Can Be](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12198105/chapters/27697674) for more of their adventures.


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